Prince of Thorns
by Curse-Never-Dying
Summary: When a young Harry Potter is manipulated into picking up the Coin of a desperate, infamous Fallen Angel, he falls victim to a slow seduction. A conversion by the smallest of steps. If the Heavens cannot help him achieve his goals, he'll raise the powers of Hell!
1. Prologue: Enter the Players

Prince of Thorns

 **Prologue: Enter the Players**

The sky was grey and overcast. From it slashed down a veritable monsoon, ensuring that the day was cold and damp. Chill winds blew in from the north, fresh from the pine forests of Scandinavia, even though it was not yet the season for such weather.

It smelt of Winter and that was a bad thing, to his mind. An ill portent.

In short, it was the sort of day during which one desires to do nothing more than settle down on the sofa with a mug of steaming tea and spend one's time immersed in a good book. The strong winds drove the rain in every conceivable direction, drowning the world at large. Gutters overflowed with water, straining the capacity of storm drains and cisterns alike. The cold dampness sank into brickwork and mortar, but also into the bones of all who dwelt beneath the darkened heavens.

On the land, rats huddled in their underground warrens and listened to the pulsing beat of the raindrops upon tarmac, as they ran off gutters and shingled roofs. People abandoned the streets, where a freezing white mist hung in the air. They retreated to the comforts of their homes, brightened the lights, and stoked the hearth fires as water beaded on the windows. In other, darker, places, unsavory things hid themselves away and dreamt their evil dreams.

The mischievous wind was in the process, moreover, of brewing a rather nasty storm over the Channel, whose waters reflected the leaden colour of the sky. Whitecapped waves rushed about, crests rising and falling as they merged with each other, as still waters seethed up from their lowest depths. In the end, they dashed themselves against whatever solid surfaces they could find, the sea's devouring eddies slowly eating away at the famous White Cliffs of Dover.

Fingers drummed ceaselessly upon wood as their owner sat quietly, contemplating the unseasonably wintery weather, with the crash and roar of the distant surf forming a pleasant ambient noise. The salty spray from one of these waves dampened the refined smoking-jacket that ended only a few inches above the tapping fingers, and the owner raised a sleeve to his spectacles. There he carefully inspected a damp patch before lowering the sleeve to its previous position, where it was promptly wettened again.

No, Nathaniel reflected, he was not fond of England. It might well have been the country of his birth, but he had always despised the narrow streets, overcast weather, and abominable food. He supposed that it was the result of a life spent in courts across world. Given the choice, he would never have come back.

Then again, he hardly had a choice, now did he? He was practically reduced to clutching at straws, as evinced by this journey.

Spray once again soaked his frail body, and he shivered convulsively. His little awning might very well have kept the rain off, but the briny waves were another matter altogether. Really, he ought to have known better than to sit on the deck of a ship during a brewing storm. Especially during a storm that reeked of Winter, as this one did. Giving in to the inevitable, he called for his manservant.

"Jeeves! I do believe I've tired of sitting out in this dismal weather. I should like to return to my suite, if you would be so kind."

Footsteps sounded behind him, so quiet as to be inaudible to the common ear. A hand, gloved in pristine white, draped a warm throw over his shoulders and then carefully arranged it.

"I fancy it might be indeed judicious if you were to make an exit, sir," his indomitable manservant remarked quietly yet reprovingly as he took hold of the handles of the wheelchair. "It is quite likely that you should take cold if you remained out, as I have previously mentioned."

"Never you mind about my health, Jeeves," Nathaniel replied testily, running a spotted hand through his silver hair and stowing his spectacles. Jeeves' subtle jabs were not improving his cantankerous nature.

"No, sir," Jeeves replied mechanically, as he maneuvered the vehicle towards the door. "Perhaps a spot of tea and a hot compress once you've dried off might sound appealing?"

That sounded absolutely marvelous, to Nathaniel's mind. "Perhaps," he conceded, wistfully thinking of the hot sands of Arabia, or even the steamy climes of Africa or South America.

As Jeeves wrestled him through the door, and proceeded to push him down the richly carpeted halls of the private yacht, Nathaniel reached into a small compartment on one side of the wheelchair, and extracted a small, heavy bag which he began to flip back and forth over his hand. He found that such displays of manual dexterity were both amusing and useful as practice for similar things.

Eventually, this activity escalated to full-scale juggling as he passed it behind his head and through the arms of the long-suffering valet. He persisted in his antics for several minutes before his eyes suddenly widened and he bobbled the catch as his body seized up.

His withered hand grasped the arm of the wheelchair as he coughed violently, pain racking his innards.

It hurt so very much, that he almost wished for the release that death would give him.

From behind him, Jeeves produced an embroidered handkerchief and gently deposited it in his hand. Nathaniel gratefully accepted it with a trembling hand and raised it to his mouth as another spasm shook his aged frame. Eventually the fit passed and he wiped the drool from the edges of his mouth before passing the handkerchief back to Jeeves.

Jeeves examined the handkerchief closely, and found it to be stained with innumerable flecks of bloody phlegm. He raised an elegant eyebrow.

"The spasms are getting worse," Nathaniel reluctantly admitted to him. "I fear I don't have much longer left before I slough off this mortal coil."

Jeeves disposed of the soiled fabric, retrieved the bag, and then resumed wheeling his master down the opulent corridors.

"I suspected as much from the blood, sir. Shall you be wanting your tonic, then?"

Nathaniel sighed and slumped back in defeat. A headache was coming on, as often happened after such episodes. Jeeves prepared an absolutely superb concoction to remedy it after the attacks. The concoction worked even better than magic, he often thought.

"I might as well, but I should like a nice hot shower beforehand. Oh, and I suspect it might be best for you to contact Healer Bonham. Try and see if I might get my appointment moved up to tomorrow morning."

Jeeves silently nodded, understanding the man's meaning. His stoic façade wavered for just an instant and his dark brows drew together as he considered it.

Nathaniel Aculeus would either find a remedy for his malady the following day, or die tomorrow evening.

* * *

The chartered yacht arrived in London during the late evening. Jeeves magically procured, as was his wont, a chauffeur and automobile from the ranks of his colleagues. After a short drive, Nathaniel & Co. spent that night at the Langham. Nathaniel slept poorly- the fits were increasing in both intensity and frequency. Moreover, staying in a horizontal position for any length of time seemed to aggravate them even further. In a vain attempt to mitigate the symptoms he propped himself up upon pillows and did his best to doze.

As might have been expected, Nathaniel did not wish to eat anything the next morning – he really didn't desire to even think about food. His feelings, however, were no match for the relentless nagging of Jeeves, and so he partook of strawberries, coffee, and cigars (Cohiba Behike, if you please!). When this settled his stomach, he breakfasted on a perfectly seasoned cutlet, which went superbly with the fine Amontillado the hotel offered.

Jeeves excused himself to take a telephone call, as he was left alone with his own thoughts for several minutes.

For a dying man, he discovered, he really thought little about dying. Instead his mind danced with schemes to fiendishly manipulate the British Government, based completely upon the ridiculous articles in the paper before him. He abandoned his reverie, however, when Jeeves approached and discreetly whispered in his ear.

"Excellent, excellent," he coughed. "We shall go there presently, but first I have some last affairs to put in order."

Having dressed impeccably in an Armani suit of palest grey (at Jeeves' recommendation), Nathaniel waited impatiently as Jeeves summoned his truant automobile and driver.

It was startling ironic, he thought grumpily, that the driver should be late at perhaps the only time that really mattered.

As the car pulled up to the front of the hotel, another fit overtook him, and Jeeves was forced to help him enter the vehicle, a feat he was normally capable of performing himself, invalidism notwithstanding.

Nestled within the soft upholstery, Nathaniel withdrew his pocket watch and glanced at the hands.

Half past eight.

Eleven hours to live, he reflected to himself, assuming the contagion kept true to form.

* * *

All in all, Tom enjoyed being the sole owner and proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron. Business after the war was booming, and people always had time for a bite, whether it be elevenses, afternoon tea, or high tea before venturing into Diagon Alley.

Of course, this also meant customers. Lots of customers- a veritable legion of them, in fact. Now, these customers came mostly for the luncheon special, which meant that they flooded the place come noon. As such, he had to spend most of the day preparing. This included washing up the dishes and polishing the glasses.

Tom hated polishing glasses.

Make no mistake, he knew that it was the time-honored occupation of barkeeps across the civilized world. He simply could not bring himself to enjoy doing it. He thought it to be both a waste of time and slightly less than sanitary, given that he did not wash the rag regularly.

To take his mind off the tedium of his task, he would often watch the street outside. Muggles came and went, both by automobile (which he secretly found most fascinating) and on foot. Rarely did anyone step from an automobile and enter his store.

He was therefore surprised when a gleaming white vintage car pulled up in front of his humble establishment, and two persons disembarked.

The door creaked and chimes jingled softly as the two men entered his store. The first appeared to be in a very active middle age, and was smartly dressed in a dark suit, yet was not so elegantly attired that he upstaged the man behind him. He looked around the bar carefully, and then gestured for the other man to enter.

Behind him came what looked to be a very elderly man. His leathery skin was dark with spots, and his hair as silver as a Patronus. Tom was most shocked by the fact that he appeared to be riding some sort of wheeled chair contraption. He'd seen them before, but they seemed to be used almost exclusively by Muggles- there wasn't much that magic could not mend.

And indeed, several of the, shall we say, _shadier_ clientele in the bar seem to think the man a Muggle. One of them, who was known to be something of a blood purist, immediately jumped up from his seat.

"What the deuce is a bloody Muggle doing in 'ere?" he growled at Tom, gesturing broadly towards the pair. "You said you didn't serve their kind here!"

Tom was not, unfortunately, able to provide a satisfactory answer, and so the man stalked angrily over towards the invalid.

"We don't want your kind here, Muggle," he snarled, stabbing a meaty finger at the man. "Sod off."

The older man gave an icy smile.

"I fear not, my dear sir. I have unfinished business awaiting me."

The supremacist narrowed his piggy eyes. "You'd better watch yourself," he warned. "I've a death sentence in over twelve countries on the Continent, for the use of Unforgivables. Real easy for something to happen to an old gaffer like yourself."

Nathaniel regarded him coldly, ire piqued, then spoke. "Jeeves? I do believe we've been threatened. Perhaps you'd be amenable to showing this kind gentleman the error of his ways?"

"Yes, sir."

In a flash, the man was on the ground, screaming as he cradled his broken arm. Jeeves stood over him, one hand slightly raised. His eyes gleamed with something like bloodlust and rage, and his facial features were horribly contorted, almost as if the bones had shifted. He bared his abnormally sharp teeth and reached towards the fallen man, but a voice cracked like a whip behind him.

"Jeeves! Do not forget yourself."

As soon as Nathaniel spoke, Jeeves withdrew to his customary place at his right shoulder, features returning to normal and resuming his customary placid demeanor. For their part, the other patrons of the bar turned their backs on the fallen man and went back to their drinks.

"We shall be needing to use the entrance to the Alley, Mr. Barkeeper," Nathaniel informed Tom politely as he was wheeled to the rear exit of the tavern. Tom was only too quick to agree. Seemed like he'd misjudged the chap- he spoke and comported himself more like some pureblood Lord than a Muggle. Not the kind of person he wanted to cross, that. Almost reminded him of the Old Lord Malfoy, he did.

It was always an amusing fight when Jeeves was angered, Nathaniel mused. Perhaps he ought to have let him continue, simply to see the reactions of the other occupants of the tavern. He quickly suppressed such thoughts, as they were weakness, a temptation that only his lesser brethren succumbed to.

After entering the Alley, the couple made straight for an imposing snow-white multistoried marble building clearly visible among all the hubbub in the street. People nudged and pushed past Nathaniel, but only at first. After a few seconds, he raised a finger and people were brushed cursorily out from in front of him by an invisible hand. This had the added benefit of clearing a nice, clean pathway through the discarded fruits, melted ice creams, scraps of fat and gristle, crushed candy, and leavings of a thousand other meals.

When they reached a set of white stairs leading up to a set of burnished silver doors, Jeeves simply picked up the wheelchair and carried it up without visible effort.

The doors were flanked by lesser goblins in uniforms of scarlet and gold, whom Nathaniel paid absolutely no attention to. He smiled as he always did, though, when he read the quaint little poem engraved upon the doors.

 _Hardly. Bloody amateurs. Still, it is probably the safest place in this particular community._

He did not wait in line, as many of the plebeians surrounding him did. Instead, Jeeves bore him over to one of the guards.

"I wish to speak with someone about my accounts, Master Goblin," Nathaniel informed him politely.

"Do I look like an accountant?" grumbled the goblin, his inhuman palate mutilating the words. "You'll have to wait in line, same as everybody else."

Nathaniel's flashed green for a split second at the goblin's reply. He emphatically disliked being told 'no.' Carefully keeping the annoyance and seething anger from his voice, he spoke once more, this time in Gobbledygook.

"I am not everybody else, sirrah, and I shall speak with Financial Manager Nagnok. _Now_."

At the last word, the candles on the chandeliers flickered and the shadows in the room grew to monstrous proportions, seeming to take on lives of their own.

Nathaniel knew that his physical body was a ruined shell, yes, but his mastery of arcane and unholy powers was still unparalleled. Anyone who judged him based upon his appearance alone he classified as a fool.

 _Was that hypocritical?_ he wondered, then dismissed the idea. It hardly mattered.

The soldier looked at the regal old man, and then took off at a dead run for the offices further into the building. Nathaniel settled back into his padded wheelchair with a sigh of exasperation.

"Interruptions," he murmured grumpily to Jeeves. "Always the interruptions."

"Yes, sir," his loquacious manservant sympathised.

The guard returned in relatively short order, however, and brought along a most venerable looking goblin who appeared rather out of breath.

"What is the meaning of this?" he huffed indignantly at Nathaniel.

"Ah, Master Nagnok," Nathaniel greeted him. "You are the spitting image of your ancestor, Balnog the Charred. As for further details, I daresay that this -" Jeeves held up an ebony key "- should suffice. I can tell you what I need in private."

At the sight of that particular key, the aged goblin's mouth opened and closed, much like that of a fish. After about a quarter of a minute, however, he recovered, cast a furtive glance around, and bid Nathaniel to follow him.

The odd company stopped in a well-furnished meeting room. Nagnok posted the guard outside with strict instructions to let no one come near, and then locked and bolted the doors securely.

"My lord . . .?"

"Nathaniel," the man genially replied.

"My lord Nathaniel. What might Gringott's do to aid you?"

"I believe that it is traditional," he said very seriously, "for a dying man to draw up a will, wot? Apart from that, I shall need to make a sizeable withdrawal from the Thorne Vault, as well as a small deposit to vault six hundred and sixty-six. That vault is then to be further fortified, using -"

The goblin appeared shocked. "But my dear sir! No-one has ever breached a Gringotts vault, and no-one ever shall. Moreover, we are hardly accustomed to letting our patrons place their own protections upon vaults. We have the very best security in the whole circle of the world. Our professional ethic dictates that - "

Nathaniel did not blink. "Twenty thousand, to be paid in full after the vault is secured to my satisfaction. Is that acceptable to you?"

The goblin miraculously overcame his ethical dilemma. Nathaniel didn't care for ethics, himself. Horrible things. Bad for the health.

"From your rather vacant expression, I will assume so. Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the aforementioned vault will use a variation of Loew's Conditional Pentacle, which I shall transcribe for you. Finally, Mr. Jeeves will assign several acquaintances of his to you. No, don't fret. You may keep them within the vault at all times. There's no danger of them attempting to open the other vaults, I assure you."

"Of course, of course," the goblin said obsequiously, wringing its hands. "It shall be just a moment. I shall call our foremost barrister, and instruct a runner to fetch whatever you may need. I shall see to the defenses of the vault myself."

"Very good, my dear sir. Mr. Jeeves here will accompany your runner to my vaults."

The goblin was a good as his word, and soon Nathaniel had his items, a secured vault, and was happily recording his will. Twenty thousand rupiahs were such a small price to pay, after all. If the goblin had misunderstood him, that was hardly his problem. After all, one always needed to be particular in all the, well, particulars.

"I, Nathaniel Aculeus, being sound of both mind and body, do leave the entirety of mine estate to one Nicodemus Archleone, his wife Polonius Lartessa, and their daughter Deirdre. Furthermore, I do . . ."

* * *

Nathaniel was very quiet on the way to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, simply trying to savor the comfortable feel of the cushions upon his delicate skin. But the pain was gnawing at his innards again, and he knew that was a very poor sign. If the wizards at St. Mungo's were unable to help him, he would undoubtedly die. It wouldn't be the first time, but death was never pleasant, and it could take years to find a proper host body. He did not care to be absent from the world for such extended lengths of time. Plots would come to fruition during that time, and new ground might be carefully sown.

Not that a new body would matter, given his condition.

Once more he was incapacitated by a fit, so Jeeves had to haul him out of the Rolls, place him in his wheelchair, and then activate the mannequin to St. Mungo's.

The indignity made him want to burn something to cinders.

Wizards in lime green robes bustled about through the various corridors of the building, dealing with the overcrowded waiting room as quickly as they could. Two of them bore a stretcher, with a brawny man sprawled upon it whom Nathaniel recognized.

Nathaniel caught his eye and winked. The man paled, and Nathaniel gave a vindictive smirk. He did not care for the blood purists of England. They were so very _backwards_ when compared to the rest of the world, which held no such silly notions. Perhaps centuries of inbreeding had reduced their intelligence to that of the great apes, or even porpoises?

Then again, change was the result of both societal and physical conflict, and too long had the Wizarding World of England remained virtually unchallenged. It was a dying beast that labored for breath and had done so for centuries. Magic was the heart that sustained its sickness. Now that so many of the recent generation hailed from non-magical families, it would be interesting to see how long the old ways would survive.

Jeeves was able to approach the Welcome Witch, drop Bonham's name, and wheel Nathaniel immediately to an examination room on the fourth floor. At Nathaniel's insistence, he left and took up guarding the entryway.

He waited there for some time, amusing himself by counting backwards in Ancient Sumerian and casting sundry small spells. A heavyset, dark-haired witch then entered, hair held back in a utilitarian ponytail. She immediately introduced herself to Nathaniel as Amelia Bonham, and began to run a battery of tests upon him without further ado. As it turned out, she was forced to call in a multitude of other Healers to examine him. None of them were able to produce anything conclusive, however, and eventually Helena left to collate the results of the tests.

"Mr. Aculeus, I am afraid I have some bad news."

Nathaniel let his shoulders sag, as might have been expected of a dying man. "You cannot cure it, then?" he asked listlessly.

"I'm afraid not," the Healer apologised. "Frankly speaking, none of the other healers could find anything remotely resembling a spell on you. Even I (possibly the foremost Healer in this hemisphere, if I do say so myself) can only sense the very basics of whatever spell this is. All of them agree, though, that you do appear to be suffering from some variation of a Dark curse. The spell, whatever it might be, is hideously complex. Someone like Albus Dumbledore might be able to mitigate some of the effects, but I doubt even he could cure it."

"You are absolutely sure of this?" he questioned.

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"It is of no consequence, my dear. I have lived a very, very long time. While I'd hoped you would prove able to cure me, plans are fragile things, and life often dashes expectations to the ground."

"I am glad you feel that way, sir. What is really frustrating is that had you come a few years later, or even under a different set of circumstances, I might have been able to produce different results."

Nathaniel looked up quickly, interest piqued. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"There's been what you might call a great breakthrough in cursebreaking," Bonham explained earnestly. "It happened when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named cast the Killing Curse-"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Nathaniel queried, raising an eyebrow. "Who, may I ask, is that?"

"The Dark Lord, of course. Anyway, as you know, one Hallowe'en a few years ago, he broke into the Potter's home. Slaughtered the mother and father, and then cast the Killing Curse on the child, Harry James Potter. For some reason, though, it didn't work. Instead, it rebounded and destroyed him. The child survived unscathed, from what I'm told. Now, if we had managed to study the boy, it's possible that we might have exponentially improved our ability to cure curses, but that's no longer a possibility," she finished sadly.

"Why ever not?"

"Because he's up and disappeared, of course. Can't study what you can't find."

With that, the conversation concluded itself. The delicate cobweb of spells he had cast while waiting would tamper with the memories of all that had examined him. He could not have anyone unnecessarily knowing of his condition, after all. That would be suicide, both figuratively and possibly literally.

Jeeves entered the room and began to wheel Nathaniel back out to the Silver Wraith.

For his part, Nathaniel puzzled and puzzled until his puzzler was sore. Now, he hadn't been to England in absolutely ages, and so he was somewhat surprised to hear about all the hullabaloo that had gone on in his absence. He shook his head. Was _no_ wizard, of any type, capable of keeping out of trouble for more than a brief moment?

Based upon his most recent encounters with both wand-wizards and true wizards, he supposed not.

Nathaniel wasn't particularly concerned about the rise of yet another Dark wand-wizard, as they rarely caused many casualties. Even Grindelwald, for all the destruction he had wrought, had only been riding Kemmler's skirts.

A faint smile played over his lips. Kemmler had been such a polite young man. Always willing to listen to his elders and betters, and unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality. He shook his head at the memories, and returned to his previous train of thought.

No, far more important was the matter of this Harry James Potter.

She'd implied that studying the child might've yielded research that could have cured him. But why bother to do that when he could go straight to the source?

"Jeeves," he said suddenly, his hopes growing, "I want you to contact Nicodemus or Tessa, whichever one can make it here by tonight. Tell them I have a last request, one that might end up restoring me."

"Yes, sir," Jeeves replied stoically.

* * *

The end had come at last. The terminus of this particular play.

As Nathaniel lay in his bed, struggling to draw another rasping breath, the shadow of Jeeves fell over him.

"Lord Archleone is here, sir," he announced.

"Well done, my faithful Jeeves," Nathaniel managed to gasp. "When I am gone, follow Nicodemus until I call for you once more. You've been of great service."

Then he turned his attention to the man standing on the other side of the bed. He was dark, even in a world without the fading colours of Nathaniel's vision. His shadow loomed behind him, terrible to behold.

"Nicodemus," he greeted him weakly. "Anduriel."

Both the man and his shadow nodded to the bedridden Denarian.

"Greetings," Nicodemus said, his voice as smooth as silk, but with a faint rasp to it. "Your servant said that you had found some way of restoring your usefulness to me."

Nathaniel was fading fast now, he could tell. Darkness was creeping into the edges of his vision.

He gestured weakly to a small bag resting on his dresser, and then spoke.

"Harry Potter. Boy-Who-Lived. Wand-wizard. Great resistance to . . . dark curses."

"Ah," Nicodemus replied, understanding. "It that it?"

Nathaniel nodded once. He could feel the last vestiges of his former strength leaving him, and he was frightened, as he was every time. He knew that he would not, indeed could not, die, but this knowledge did nothing to diminish his fear of the oncoming void. That void always reminded him of the most beautiful and horrible moment of his existence, when he had finally declared himself a free being.

That was, of course, the instant he had Fallen.

"Then I shall do it, my old friend. But always remember that it was I, not Lartessa who did this for you. Had you not defected to my service, I would not be so lenient. But in this case . . ."

Nathaniel felt Nicodemus touch something cold to his neck and shivered despite himself.

"I'll be seeing you soon, Namshiel."

He released the host and retreated back into his Coin.

Nicodemus quickly extracted something silvery from the palm of the corpse and pocketed it, then straightened himself and wiped his hands clean with a cloth. That done, he cleaned a tiny blade and secreted it on his person.

It was time to find this Harry Potter, he mused. And to learn more about this fascinating wizarding subculture Namshiel had just introduced to him


	2. Chapter 1: Innocence Lost

Chapter I: Innocence Lost

His face twisted in a grimace as he regarded the shell lying before him. That a Denarian, one of the most lethal of his Knights, should be reduced to this, was shameful. The Knight had acted against his orders, yes, but Nicodemus' punishment for disobedience had paled in comparison to the one inflicted on Thorned Namshiel by others. He snapped his fingers.

"You there. Namshiel's servant. Dispose of the corpse, and then meet me outside. You have ten minutes."

Jeeves bowed low, and then ghosted over to the cooling body, loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves in preparation for the arduous work ahead of him. He peeled back the expensive sheets, heaved the body onto his shoulder, and then carried it into the bathroom and deposited it in the massive bath. He then began to systematically strip the body of clothing.

Nicodemus turned on his heel with a squeak of leather on wood and prepared to leave, but his shadow drew close to him and murmured in his ear.

"Ah, yes, of course. Mustn't forget that," he agreed, moving swiftly over to the heavy dresser, and picked up the heavy leather bag that lay there. He frowned and weighed it in his hands. It was significantly lighter than he had expected.

 _He must not have retrieved quite all of them. Still, half a loaf is better than none,_ Nicodemus thought as he pocketed it and quietly exited, the luxurious rugs of the hall muffling his footfalls.

When Nicodemus left, Jeeves took off his jacket, slung it over a convenient armchair, and went about his grisly job.

* * *

When Jeeves ducked down into the nondescript black town car, Nicodemus seemed to be quietly meditating at his preferred spot on the far seat. His eyes darted madly about behind closed lids, and at times he would turn slightly to one side, as though he were attempting to discern some faint sound.

As any proper manservant ought, Jeeves closed the door with the utmost care and eased himself down upon the seat farthest from Nicodemus. It was just then, however that - Oh, the horror! - the treacherous upholstery gave him away, emitting the slightest of squeaks when his immaculately clad rear sank into it!

Truly, it was a dismal failure for someone as proficient as he at buttling.

Nicodemus opened his eyes at the sound, and favored Jeeves with a tight smile before returning to his contemplation. Then he opened one eye for a moment.

"You have something to the right of your mouth," he said, closing his eyes.

Jeeves blotted at his suddenly moist face with a handkerchief, then carefully wiped his lips.

It took several more minutes for Nicodemus to finish whatever he was doing. At length, however, he emitted a dissatisfied noise and turned to his driver. Whatever he whispered to the man Jeeves was unable to catch, no matter how he strove to do so. The driver merely gave a mute nod and ignited the engine.

Nicodemus turned to Jeeves. "Tell me, Mr., ah, _Jeeves_ , what do you know of this Harry Potter?"

Jeeves blinked slowly, then proceeded to recite all relevant conversations verbatim. When he had finished, Nicodemus leaned back against his seat.

"That is hardly helpful. Are you sure that there was no physical description of this child mentioned, no next of kin? Harry Potter is a fairly common name, I'm afraid."

"No, sir. As far as I am aware, that was all the information that Lord Namshiel possessed."

"It is of little consequence, I suppose. We shall inevitably find him, but I would prefer it to be sooner rather than later. Events are unfolding at an accelerated pace, and will soon require my direct supervision. Tell me, how does this subculture interact with the supernatural world at large? The mundane world?" Nicodemus questioned.

"There doesn't seem to be any, sir. Lord Namshiel made something of a study of it, though. Should you care to ask him when he is awake, I daresay he could give you a more satisfactory answer."

Nicodemus appeared skeptical, to say the least. "There is absolutely _no_ interaction at all with anyone outside of this subculture? That seems nigh-impossible, especially given the pervasive nature of the mundane."

"Forgive me, sir; I misspoke," Jeeves apologised. "Inasmuch as I am aware, there is no interaction between wand-wizards and the greater supernatural community. They are aware of normal humans, however. They call them 'Muggles', and they are a subject of great controversy within the politics of the wand-wizards. A great many of them seem to view Muggles as inherently lower beings. As such, interaction is rare, unless one is born of Muggle parents. They do seem to make some effort to go unnoticed."

"Who are the _de facto_ leaders of these wand-wizards?" he asked, fingering the odd grey tie he wore.

Jeeves had to think on that one for a moment. "In all honesty, milord, I could not give a certain answer. It has been some years since Lord Namshiel has seen fit to associate himself with wand-wizards. That said, he did hear that one Grindelwald, who fancied himself the mastermind behind the Second World War and the Global Wizarding War, was defeated by an Albus Dumbledore, who was supposedly a British wand-wizard of some repute. I would assume that he would be a person of some importance. Apart from him . . . I can only think of milord's nominal allies, the Malfois, or Malfoy, family."

"No, no," Nathaniel said quietly, a light dancing within his eyes. "That was very useful, Jeeves. Very useful indeed. It may narrow our search considerably."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, but then Anduriel suddenly loomed large behind Nicodemus, and made a noise that sounded like a disturbingly serpentine whisper. Nicodemus cocked his head, as though listening to an unheard voice.

"Interesting," he murmured. "This could require my attention."

* * *

Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, was busy perusing the lists of young wizards who would attend Hogwarts the following year. He always liked to get such things done early in the preceding November. The portraits throughout the Headmaster's Office were dozing in the heat of a crackling fire Albus had conjured in the fireplace.

He paused at one name about two-thirds of the way down the page, lost in memory.

It happened a rather lot, at his age. There were memories both good and bad. Memories of the hazy, distant golden summers of youth, alight with shimmering dragonflies and pure laughter, of green hills and burbling streams, of beloved friends and acquaintances.

At the same time, there were also memories of flashes of light, of blood and metal, pain and rain. Of the contorted faces, pale bodies, and clouded eyes of those same friends.

Fawkes shoved his head under Dumbledore's hand and pushed it up, nudging the old man out of his reveries. He sighed and shook his head as he stroked the soft plumage.

"I miss them so very much, Fawkes. All of them, but particularly Lily and James."

Fawkes trilled sympathetically.

"Yes, I agree. It will be very nice to see young Harry Potter again. I fear I've been politicking too long, and young people are so refreshing. I do hope he is happy with his relatives."

Fawkes gave an indignant squawk.

"That's quite enough from you, sir. His aunt seemed to be a very nice young lady, from what I remember."

Despite his words, his face fell, and he looked his nearly century of age.

"But there's not much else I could have done, Fawkes. Even if what Minerva said is true, what could I have done differently? The blood wards were set on the residence of his relatives, and I simply could not have guaranteed his safety in our world without them. Even living with a family like the Weasleys, I fear it would have been all too simple for a former Death Eater to assassinate him. Alas, that I should have survived to see these dark days. It may be that it is too much for an old man."

The two old friends sat in silence, and Dumbledore fidgeted with some of his curious silver instruments.

"Mind you," he added, after thinking for a moment, in an attempt to lighten the mood "if he's anything like his father, I rather suspect Mr. Filch will feel quite differently about his presence here."

Fawkes simply rubbed up against him affectionately as Dumbledore stared over his enormous, claw-footed desk into the blazing fireplace. The changing light appeared to play havoc with the shadows in the room, exaggerating them to enormous proportions.

* * *

"Squire," Nicodemus said, opening his eyes, "take us to the Family Records Centre in Clerkenwell."

* * *

Nicodemus wetted a finger and leafed quietly though the pages of the index he held before him. He was very close now, so very close to finding Harry Potter. When this was finished, he could at last turn to more important matters.

The room in which he sat was within the Family Records Centre, which held the birth and death certificates of everyone recently born or deceased in England. It was here that he hoped to find, if not Harry Potter's location, then at least several hints as to his possible whereabouts.

When at last he came to the appropriate section of the book, he slowed, and began to trace a finger down the yellowed page.

Past the Poppins and the Porters, and into the Potters, until finally . . .

 _2\. Name and Surname: Harry James Potter._

Oddly enough, however, the place of birth and usual address were blank. Nicodemus was not pleased, but he could hardly profess to be surprised. Intelligent people did not list their actual residence upon easily obtainable documents, if they even had such documents.

 _Nor do they advertise themselves in the phonebook_ , he thought.

Tracing the paternal line proved to be a fruitless endeavor. Both parents were dead, and there were no siblings on the father's side, so he proceeded to the mother.

 _9.(a) Maiden Surname: Evans._

A quick perusal of the Evans registry revealed both parents to be deceased, but there was something else in there as well . . .

 _2\. Name and Surname: Petunia Evans._

An address was given, but Nicodemus was not particularly interested. That would have been her parents' address, and he wanted a current one.

Nicodemus quietly slid the book into its proper place on the sagging shelves and made his way through the dusty stacks to the marriage records. He ran a hand along the spines of the records, searching for an appropriate volume.

Given the birth date of Petunia Evans, he supposed that a marriage might have occurred beginning in nineteen seventy-seven, given the current age of consent.

As it turned out, his supposition was accurate, and he found a certificate binding one Petunia Evans and Vernon Dursley in the bonds of eternal wedlock in the corresponding volume.

More importantly, their address was listed as 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

Nicodemus smiled his crocodile's smile.

* * *

Vernon Dursley glanced hopefully at the gilded clock above his desk. It was not as if he disliked his job; no, he enjoyed it and was immensely proud of his position within Grunnings. Nonetheless, he had to admit that the prospect of his upcoming luncheon break was slightly more alluring than that of finalizing deals and signing endless sheaves of paper.] that lay before him.

Unfortunately, the clock showed no inclination of displaying the proper time for his lunch break.

"Someone in the front office to see you, sir," his secretary informed him via the intercom, startling the large man.

Vernon poked the intercom with a sausage-like finger.

"Eh, what's that? I haven't any appointments scheduled today, woman! A man of my position is not available for appointments upon demand by every Oliver Twist off the street!" he barked.

There was a long silence from the other end of the line and Vernon settled back in his leather chair, satisfied that he had dealt with the issue.

As it turned out, however, his reaction was slightly premature, for the intercom soon buzzed again, and the voice of his secretary imposed upon him once again, in all of its static glory.

"He says that he is here to discuss the possibility of a large investment in Grunnings, sir."

Vernon couldn't push the button fast enough, and scattered a few of his piles of paper in his haste.

"Just how large are we talking?" he asked. Any observer would have noticed an odd resemblance to a certain cartoon avian at this point.

There was another pause, but his secretary soon replied, "He says that if all goes well, he is amenable to looking at investments in the range of several hundred thousand pounds to several million, sir. Says he's a representative of the Sanctus Corporation."

Vernon was momentarily thrown by the mention of a 'Sanctus Corporation' – couldn't remember ever hearing about such a company in the field – but decided that it would be a good idea to, at the very least, hear the man out.

"Send him in," Vernon ordered, straightening his tie.

The door opened almost immediately, and in strode a man of the sort Vernon had always aspired to be.

He was of middling height and build, but bore himself with the confidence and authority of a larger man. Dark eyes flashed as they took in the room. The man turned his handsome face towards Vernon, and Vernon admitted to himself that never before had he met such an august personage.

Vernon quickly gave him a once-over, and his clothing (always important to Vernon) only served to reinforce Vernon's initial impression. The black of his expensive suit went well with his immaculate hair, though the grey bolo tie he wore wasn't quite the usual in England. It did, Vernon supposed, complement the streaks of silver around his temples.

When he spoke, it was in a rich, confident tone with just a hint of roughness.

"Mr. Dursley, I presume? I am Nicholas Archleone. A pleasure to meet you."

The necessary pleasantries were otherwise exchanged, and soon the two men sat down to discuss business.

"A prosperous business, Grunnings," Nicholas remarked, taking in the rich, dark wood paneling of the office. "We at Sanctus have been most impressed by your earnings. If I understood the reports correctly, you've seen almost an eight percent annual growth in recent years."

"Quite, quite. The _innovation_ is the key, you see. In England, Grunnings stands for dynamic new growth, for reliability, and for quality. But it's not simply that. Presenting it to the public takes a talented hand, not unlike my own. Proper marketing does wonders for sales, I've always said."

They talked for a short while, but Nicholas soon got to the point, which Vernon admired. Showed confidence in his bargaining position.

"Mr. Vernon, let me be frank. An investment, or possibly joint venture with Sanctus and its affiliates, will turn Grunnings into a powerhouse. Provided that we see a reasonable rate of return upon any investment, I should think it might be quite possible to interest some others in further investment, or even a joint venture."

Vernon smiled broadly. "Well, Mr. Archleone, I'm sure I speak for the rest of the board in expressing my own excitement. I have no doubt that should you choose to invest in us, you will have a most acceptable return on your investment. Might I ask what sum we are dealing with, however?"

Nicholas regarded him intensely for a long moment, and Vernon shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"At the moment, we are somewhat wary of investing in companies based in the United Kingdom and the Continent, as I'm sure you can understand. I think that perhaps an investment on the order of, say, a million-and-a-half pounds might be in order."

"I can certainly understand," Vernon said sourly. "Country is going to the dogs. I can assure you, however, that given the extraordinary growth of Grunnings, investing more money will yield -"

Nicholas held up a hand. "Say no more, my good Mr. Dursley. I am afraid that I simply cannot yield on this point. Yes, Grunnings has done very well for itself. Yet it is also a relatively small, privately owned company. A sum of the magnitude I mentioned ought to be quite a windfall for you. Moreover, a wealthy compatriot of mine, Sir Nathaniel, deals almost exclusively in the European business arena, unlike myself. I'm sure that he could be persuaded to deal with you should things go well."

Vernon's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. " _Sir_ Nathaniel?" he squeaked.

Nicholas gave a slow nod. "Yes, I do seem to recall his being knighted at one time or another."

"In that case," Vernon replied, rubbing his hands briskly, "shall we work out the particulars of this deal?"

* * *

"This could well be the day I sign off the biggest deal of my career," said Uncle Vernon.

Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought bitterly, Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party. He'd been talking of nothing else for ages. Some wealthy investor was coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping secure a large investment from him.

"I think we should run through the schedule one more time," said Uncle Vernon. "We should all be in position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be -?"

"In the lounge," said Aunt Petunia promptly, "waiting to welcome him graciously to our home."

"Good, good. And Dudley?"

"I'll be waiting to open the door." Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. "May I take your coat, Mr. A-Arch?"

"Archleone," Vernon rumbled.

"Archleone," Dudley carefully repeated.

"Superb! Magnificent! Splendid!" cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.

"Excellent, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harry. "And you?"

"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," said Harry tonelessly.

"Exactly," said Uncle Vernon nastily. "I will lead him into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour the drinks. At eight-fifteen -"

"I'll announce dinner," said Aunt Petunia.

"And you?" said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.

"I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," said Harry dully.

"Precisely,' Uncle Vernon said, eying Harry rather suspiciously.

"Perhaps we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner?" Aunt Petunia suggested.

Vernon shook his head violently, setting his jowls to shaking.

"I'm not sure that's the best idea, my dear. Mr. Archleone is a very serious and blunt man, and he might take ill to such things. Besides, the deal is done in all but name. All he will be doing tonight is signing off the final papers and celebrating the deal with us."

"You always know your clients so very well, Vernon," Petunia praised him.

Vernon smiled broadly, but his smile fell when he once again turned to Harry.

"And you, boy?"

"I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he said.

"Too right, you will," said Uncle Vernon forcefully. "Mr. Archleone doesn't know anything about you and it's going to stay that way. When dinner's over, you bring in coffee and cigars, Petunia, and I'll bring the subject around to business. With any luck, I'll have the deal signed and sealed before the news at ten, and we'll be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this time tomorrow."

Harry couldn't feel too excited about this. He didn't think the Dursleys would like him any better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.

"Right - I'm off into town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and me. And you," he snarled at Harry. "You stay out of your aunt's way while she's cleaning."

The Dursleys forced him to help with the cooking, of course. Aunt Petunia had enough to do, she said, what with the cleaning and decorating and all. He didn't mind cooking for Aunt Petunia; he actually thought it rather fun. He got to mix the spices and play with the oven as long as what he made tasted good and looked better. More importantly, it was something that Dudley _didn't_ get to do.

But after he had slaved away for hours on the roast and the cake, he was immediately locked in his cupboard, and that he did mind.

Harry hated the cupboard. The spiders were okay, but the darkness and dust always made him think of the creeping things that surely dwelt in the dark places of the earth, and of death and smothering. The cupboard was the worst part of his life with the Dursleys, to his mind. No, he didn't get toys like Dudley, but most of the other kids at school didn't get them either.

Now that he thought about it, however, Harry wished that he could go out to the zoo and have ice-creams like Dudley often did. He didn't like having to stay with Mrs. Figg, the mad old cat-lady who lived two streets away, when Dudley got to go out. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs of all the cats she'd ever owned.

Hopefully Uncle Vernon's customer or whatever would leave extra soon, he thought to himself.

A sudden uncomfortable prickling in his lower regions made him shift uncomfortably. Eventually, it became sharp enough that Harry had to pound on the door to get Uncle Vernon's attention.

"Uncle Vernon!" he called. "Uncle Vernon!"

Soon he could hear footsteps outside his chamber door, and Vernon's wheezy breathing as his lungs tried desperately to supply oxygen to his enormous body.

"What d'you want, boy?" came his gruff voice.

"I have to go." Vernon did not seem immediately convinced, so Harry added, "Badly."

He could almost see the tiny little wheels turning in Uncle Vernon's head. On the one hand, he didn't want his guest to see the boy. On the other, he didn't want the house smelling of human urine, either.

"Very well, boy," Vernon growled as he drew back the deadbolt with a clink of metal on metal. "But listen here: you had better be back in that room before Mr. Archleone comes, or so help me I'll tan your hide. And no _funny business_ , either," he warned, grasping Harry firmly by the scruff of his neck.

Uncle Vernon had escorted Harry to the loo, and was in the process of taking him back when there was suddenly a sharp rapping at the door.

Vernon increased his pace as best he was able.

"Hurry!" he hissed at Harry. He was almost a quarter of the way down the hall when Dudley, in an amazing feat of athleticism and grace that belied his large frame, ran past him to the front door.

"I've got it, Daddy!" he cried, opening the door inwards and admitting the dark form of Nicholas Archleone along with a blast of chilly air.

Mr. Archleone stood just behind the threshold. "May I come in?" he enquired politely.

Vernon stood there for a moment, aghast, but tried to do his best to salvage the situation through decisive action.

"Of course, of course, Mr. Archleone! It's delightful to see you."

Nicholas nodded and entered the home.

"A beautiful home, Mr. Dursley. Impeccably maintained. I am very impressed."

He leaned down to Dudley's level and asked, "Who might you be, young sir?"

"Dudley Dursley, sir!" Dudley informed him. "May I take you coat for you, sir?"

The man smiled, an expression that never quite reached his sleepy eyes.

"Of course, you may, young man. And if I may say so, you are the spitting image of your father."

Dudley flushed with pride as he took the jacket from him and carefully arranged it on the coat rack.

Nicholas looked up from Dudley and made eye contact with Harry.

"And who," he said softly, "do we have here, Mr. Dursley?"

* * *

Nicodemus regarded the young boy held in Vernon Dursley's slack grip carefully. Shaggy black hair obscured much of his upper face, but twin orbs of the brightest green peered out from the veil of hair. He was slender, but hardly emaciated, and was in the process of wriggling out of his captor's grasp.

Nicodemus had walked the earth for nearly two hundred lives of men, and he considered himself a fair judge of a person. In this boy before him he saw one of the most dangerous traits a human could possess. He'd seen it only recently in the eyes of another, far more dangerous, wizard.

It was determination. But unlike in the eyes of the other wizard, the determination here was raw, unformed. It had yet to be set to any significant cause, and so could be molded by any with the strength and skill to do so.

And who better to do so than one of the Fallen? Age, deceit, and treachery will always break innocence, youth, and enthusiasm. Of course, given Namshiel's preferences, the boy's mental qualities weren't quite as relevant.

Vernon cleared his throat loudly. "This is, ah, Harry. Harry Potter. He's my sister-in-law's boy."

Yes, this child would do very nicely indeed.

"Indeed? How do you do, Mr. Potter?"

Nicodemus caught the soft threat Vernon whispered in Harry's ear before Harry replied.

"I'm well enough, sir. Thank you for asking."

He did not particularly like Vernon Dursley. Though he was in actuality mildly impressed with the business acumen Dursley displayed, the man was nonetheless large, dangerous to his plans, a general plague upon mankind, and aesthetically repugnant.

"I trust your parents are doing quite well?"

Harry's eyes glistened wetly, and he lowered his head. Vernon Dursley let go, then spoke for him.

"They're dead," Vernon reported. "We took in the boy out of the kindness of our hearts."

The Denarian raised an elegant eyebrow. "Indeed? I must praise your selfless act, Mr. Dursley. Few others would do so in this day and age, I'm afraid."

"Too true, too true," Vernon replied, wagging his head in a mimicry of grief. "But did the wastrel repay us? Why, he's become nothing less than a first class juvenile delinquent, he has. Terrifies the children at school, and tries to bully Dudders all the time. In fact, we've been considering pulling him out of school and sending him to, ah, St. Brutus's, ah, Secure Center for, well, Incurably Criminal Boys."

"It is such a shame," Nicodemus sighed. "That's no way to repay such kindness. Do you keep him busy?"

"We certainly do our best," Vernon said, leading Nicodemus towards the lounge, secretly grateful that the incident had been largely dismissed. "He does the gardening, the occasional bit of cooking."

"Very good. As they say, idle hands are the devil's workshop," he retorted, eyes glinting eerily. "I was always busy during my youth, and look where it has gotten me. Why, I can remember when my father . . ."

* * *

Nicodemus delicately dabbed at his lips with his spotless napkin, then pushed his plate back.

"Most excellent, Mrs. Dursley. Really, I cannot recall the last time I tasted something so exquisite."

Petunia blushed, the red doing her horsey countenance no favors.

"It is very kind of you to say so, Mr. Archleone," she simpered, wringing her napkin. Nicodemus gave her a gracious smile, then turned to Vernon.

"Shall we get down to business, Mr. Dursley?"

"We can do so immediately, Nicholas," the man in question said around a mouthful of food, "if that is your desire."

"Indeed it is, Mr. Dursley," Nicodemus responded. "I hate to leave such an enthralling gathering, but my time in the United Kingdom is somewhat limited. Several other business matters are in need of my direct supervision."

The dishes were soon cleared away, and Nicodemus, pseudonym Nicholas, was seated at Vernon Dursley's large mahogany desk in his small study. He carefully held the documents up to the light and went over the wording with the metaphorical fine-toothed comb. He could hardly trust Dursley, after all.

"Everything seems to be in order," he said at length. He produced a pen and clicked it sharply, and then carefully put his signature on the paper. Dursley hastily scrawled his own name on the document, beaming.

Nicodemus replaced his pen and then made to rise. Dursley interrupted him with what was doubtlessly intended to be a discreet cough.

"Yes, Mr. Dursley?"

"What about this acquaintance of yours?" Vernon asked nervously. "You said he'd probably be interested in a deal."

"Mr. Dursley," Nicodemus said reproachfully, "I said that should _this_ arrangement yield satisfactory results, he might be interested in treating with you. The ink is scarcely wet on that deal."

Vernon lowered his eyes as a scolded child might have. "Well," he mumbled sulkily, "I thought that you might have mentioned it to him."

"And indeed I have, Mr. Dursley. He has expressed a most definite interest in your firm. However, Sir Nathaniel, you must remember, is a _very_ elderly man. He is set in his ways, and he does not believe in hastiness."

"But there's got to be some way to hurry him along, hasn't there?"

"Well, now that I think of it. . ." Nicodemus said slowly, playing Dursley like a fish on a line.

"Yes? Yes?" Dursley said, only too willing to clutch at straws.

"Well, as I said earlier, Sir Nathaniel is getting well on in terms of years. He never goes out, never does anything. I believe that this curse is the result of outliving most everyone he considers friends. Now, I might have just the solution for this, which also may kill two birds with but a single stone. If there were someone younger around the place, even if it was not often, it might lighten his mood and give him a proclivity towards action."

"Hmm," Vernon pondered, pursing his lips. "I guess that makes sense."

"It is also the case," continued Nicodemus, "that his residence is in bad condition. The yard is poorly maintained, and he has simply never gotten 'round to hiring someone to clear it out. Such work would be excellent at building character in a young person. Now, if I may be so bold, your son Dudley seems like an upstanding young man. While Mr. Nathaniel would doubtless enjoy his company, he has no need for further development in the character department."

Vernon nodded. "I couldn't agree more," he said.

"Now, your nephew, Harry, is another story altogether," Nicodemus said, shaking his head reprovingly. "From what I recall, you were planning on sending him to a boarding or disciplinary school, no? Well, this provides a perfectly acceptable (and far less costly) alternative. He would be doing hard labor for most of the day, and be out of your hair."

Vernon thought hard about that for a minute, but his dull mind soon produced an objection.

"Well, I can hardly be expected to cart him over there every day, now could I? And he has to have some education. State demands it, even if I don't agree."

"Excellent points, Mr. Dursley. If it would be more convenient for you, I suppose I could take the boy tonight, and he could stay in the servant's quarters, or another suitable place. As for education, I must agree with you. Education ought _only_ ," he sneered, "be given to those who will make good use of it. I do believe, though, that Sir Nathaniel's butler could properly educate him. After all, that seems more like the sort of post to which your nephew one day might aspire, if he makes the necessary corrections to his attitude."

"That's all very good and well," Vernon pointed out, "but like you said, the boy is unruly. I can't just let him near a wealthy old man like he is."

Nicodemus smiled tightly. He could sense that Dursley was close to giving in.

"Ah, but Sir Nathaniel is not alone. His butler, Jeeves, is always present, and I've seen him deal with far more serious threats than a young miscreant. Besides, the good man will not tolerate poor behavior. I shouldn't be surprised if young Harry develops good manner rather quickly. Perhaps Sir Nathaniel will even be able to make something out of him."

The larger man stroked his mustache and thought on the matter for a little while longer, but Nicodemus knew that his mind was already made up. Given his rabid dislike of his nephew, there was absolutely no chance that Vernon Dursley could resist the tempting offer that the master manipulator had made.

"Well, I'll have to talk it over with Petunia, of course," Dursley glanced around the room before saying very quietly, "but I think that's bloody brilliant."

"By all means, Vernon," Nicodemus said warmly. "I'll just wait here, shall I?"

* * *

Harry was fast asleep, dreaming of a hilly slope full of red grass and a green sky. Oddly enough, the luminous sky was plummeting towards the hill at a rate that was both as swift as summer lightning, and slow as the retreat of a glacier. The sky was within mere inches of the ground when suddenly a loud noise reverberated through his dream world and he awoke in darkness. Terror seized him; he wasn't able to see his hands in front of his face. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and he stretched out his hands to feel what was around him. They met resistance only a few inches from his face, and he began to hyperventilate. He was smothering, was being crushed alive by the darkness. The darkness was infinite, and it was around him, trapping him, keeping him-

"Boy!" came Uncle Vernon's voice, snapping Harry out of his brief paralysis. "Get dressed and get out here, on the double!"

Harry dressed quickly as he was able, because Uncle Vernon sounded uncharacteristically happy, and he didn't want to ruin that mood.

When he opened the door to his closet, the light blinded him for a brief second like it normally did. His eyes soon adjusted, though, and he squinted through his glasses as the figures that met his enquiring gaze, clearly delineated by Aunt Petunia's patterned white walls behind them.

"Well, come on, then! Get up, boy!" Uncle Vernon said, but not unkindly. Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and adjusted his broken glasses.

Uncle Vernon wasn't normally this kind to him, even in front of strangers. Something was wrong.

"After much careful deliberation," he said, stroking his mustache proudly, "your aunt and I have decided that it would be best if you went off to a boarding school of sorts."

He _knew_ it. He just _knew_ it. They were abandoning him, even though they were the only family he had. He didn't want to go to a different place! What if they were even worse there?

"Uncle Vernon," Harry pleaded, clutching at the man, "please don't send me away! I'll try to be better, I promise!"

"Don't be daft, boy," Vernon growled, unhappy that Harry was mussing his suit. "We can't just abandon you, unfortunately. You're just going to be working for an old man, clearing his garden and whatnot for a while."

"Oh," Harry said uncertainly, letting go of Uncle Vernon. An old man? That sounded loads better than that Saint Brutus' place Uncle Vernon had talked about earlier.

"Yes, 'oh,'" Vernon mocked. "Mr. Nicholas, out of the goodness of his heart, has agreed to take you there tonight."

Nicodemus squatted down until he could look Harry in the eye.

"You'll be alright there, Harry," he promised. "It's a big estate, and I'm sure Sir Nathaniel wouldn't mind you taking an occasional break to go and play."

"Wow," Harry breathed, eyes wide behind his glasses. "A real knight!"

Nicodemus' eyes brightened as he rose. "Yes, Harry, a real knight, just like in the stories."

Harry looked at him for a second, and then a hint of iron crept into his voice. He had to make sure that the man wasn't lying to him, like Uncle Vernon sometimes did.

"I'll be coming back here, won't I?"

"Of course," Uncle Vernon said aloud, and Nicodemus nodded.

Harry looked at the two older men for a minute, then said, "Okay."

"Come," Nicodemus said, extending a hand, "and follow me."

Harry took the hand instantly.

* * *

The cold stars, old and bleak, shone down upon 4 Privet Drive in all their pitiless splendor. The dim whitish-blue light cast by them and by dolorous Luna made the shadows stand out crisp and clear against the ground. Two shadows and an ancient being hurried along under the sky.

Vernon Dursley escorted them to the car, eager to see Harry off of his property. When Harry climbed into the black town car, he turned to go inside.

"Oh, and Mr. Dursley, just one more thing. . .," Nicodemus called from behind him. "I do so love your suit."

Vernon called, "And a good day to you, sir!" He waved goodbye as the car pulled out, and then waddled back inside to open a bottle of champagne with his wife.

Nicodemus entered the car, suppressing a small grimace of distaste at the man's farewell words.

Nicodemus spend most of the time discreetly observing Harry Potter. The boy was twitchy, certainly. But such behaviors could be corrected in time, and were more than likely symptomatic of the mild abuse and neglect he'd endured at the hands of his relatives.

He would more than likely be more than easy to turn, this one. The embers of resentment, even hatred, already smoldered at the back of his mind. They needed only be carefully coaxed into a roaring blaze, until emotion overcame conscious thought.

It was then that the Fallen could pounce and seize the reins of control.

Harry remained wary and alert for at least a good half-hour, which impressed Nicodemus. He hadn't expected a young child to have quite so much control over himself. Eventually, though, the whispers of Hypnos lulled him to sleep, and he drifted away on the silent currents of the Lethe.

They presently drew up before the Langham, and Nicodemus gently shook the boy awake.

* * *

"Wurrwe?" Harry mumbled blearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. This didn't look like a mansion; it looked like a hotel.

"The Langham, in London. I receive word while you were asleep that Sir Nathaniel happened to be in London at the moment, so we've stopped to meet him. Would you like a bite to eat, first?"

Harry's stomach growled right then, and he realised that he felt as though he could eat a horse. Except, of course, he wouldn't do that. It wouldn't be nice to the horse, he thought.

"Sure," he said, shaking off the lingering vestiges of weariness.

"Well, I don't know if there are any eateries open right now, but I think I saw a vending machine a few streets back. I'm sure Squire wouldn't mind taking us back there."

Harry nodded, and the car soon pulled up alongside a rather dingy vending machine in front of a business. The lamps nearby were burnt out, and the only illumination was provided by a single bare bulb, suspended precariously above the machine by a thing cable.

"I'm not hungry," Mr. Archleone said, digging in his pockets, "but here is some change for the machine. Have whatever you like."

He dumped a small pile of change in Harry's trembling hand. Uncle Vernon hadn't _ever_ bought anything from a machine for him, nor let him even handle money. He decided that he liked this Mr. Archleone.

Harry opened the door, looked around to make sure there weren't any stranger about, and walked the few paces over the grungy pavement to the vending machine. He looked up and down the selection, made his choices, then began to dig through the pile of change for the appropriate coins.

They were mostly ten pence and one-pound coins, but Harry presently came upon a coin he did not recognise. It was small, and made of silver. Upon the exposed side was a worn picture of some bloke's head, but there was a strange symbol carved over it in tarnish, almost like a circle within a bunch of triangles.

"Mr. Archleone," he called back to the cab, "I think you've given me a bad coin!"

"What does it look like?" Mr. Archleone asked from the dark towncar.

Harry picked up the coin, intending to show him, but gasped as soon as his flesh touched the cold metal. A prickling jolt shot up his arm, and he had the sudden, intangible impression that someone nearby was waking up from a nap and stretching.

It was at that point he lost consciousness and collapsed to the dirty pavement, the air about him shimmering with heat.

 _I feel it important to address several issues regarding the fictional universe in which this story will be taking place. As 00 Non C. Anon 00 pointed out, I have not yet specified the time at which this story happens. In Dresden Files Time, it takes place approximately two to three months after the events of **Small Favor.** However, the Dresden storyline takes place several years later than the Harry Potter storyline. Moreover, both involve technologies common to their respective times of publication. As a result, I have been forced to move the Dresden timeline backwards, and the Harry Potter timeline forwards. I am currently maintaining that this story simply occurs around the turn of the century, so as to allow for more leeway in my writing._

 _Furthermore, this fiction will not be based on, and will completely ignore, expansions outside of the original Harry Potter series, such as **The Cursed Child**_ _and more particularly_ **_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. **_I apologise to fans of these later works, but this is essential for reasons of universe meshing and plot development._


	3. Chapter 2: Faustian

Chapter II: Faustian

There was only the Wall, and the Figure. All else was a featureless, dark void.

The titanic wall stood before him, obdurate and strong. Carved of what appeared to be some form of red granite threaded with green marble, it dwarfed the tiny figure below it, extending into the darkness outside of the unsteady orb of illumination the figure provided. It was chipped and marred with scorch marks, pitted and scarred from arcane blasts, but obstinately refused to collapse. In other places, great flows of molten rock hissed and spat as they dripped from the wall and settled onto an incorporeal floor. Twice now it had defied him, weathered his most devastating attacks, and driven him into a towering rage. But, as evinced by its appearance, it had paid a grievous toll to do so.

The nebulous figure was no less dark than the void surrounding the two. Globes of sickly emerald flame, the same colour as its smoldering eyes, were nestled in grotesque, barbed appendages that could only loosely be described as hands. The flames did nothing, however, to pierce the veil of shadow that surrounded most of its form.

The figure narrowed its glowing eyes, and another wave of sweltering heat rolled forth as flames licked around his form with a renewed vigor, tainting the heavy air with the hellish stench of brimstone. Coarse grains of quartz merrily reflected the light back, taunting him.

He growled, chest heaving with effort.

"You think to deny me my prize? I, who once looked upon the face of the Almighty Himself and dared to defy him? Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God and tasted the eternal joys of Heaven, might be resisted by the will of some mongrel human?"

There was a pause, which dragged on for what might have been eons, but which the dark figure broke with a bubble of dark, rich laughter. When he spoke again, his voice chilled the very air around him, and could be likened to a slap to the face.

"I think not."

The wall creaked and groaned in response, and it swayed unsteadily. His sharp eyes did not miss this, and he raised his hands once more, summoning more Hellfire than he'd been forced to use in more years than he cared to recall. The fires of Hell heeded his call, and a blazing inferno rushed forth from his hands, battering and gnawing at the hard stone.

Wave after wave he called, until the air was dense with smoke and hotter than a small sun. Smoke billowed from the flames in great plumes, acrid and pungent.

He gestured negligently, and a gust of freezing air swept through the area, clearing the smoke, and revealing the wall.

It was in a sad state. Much of it had melted, the magma cascading down the remaining lump of solid stone. It had flowed onto the floor, and surrounded him, save for a clear path directly ahead, blasted clear from the force of the firestorm.

The molten rock did not hinder him as he moved forward. To him, it was no warmer than a midsummer's day.

He stood facing the pathetic remnants of the wall. When once it had towered above him, now it was no more than chest-high on him.

"Thrice you have tried, and done," he hissed, baring his sharp white teeth. "You can block me no longer!"

He raised a trembling hand, extended a clawed index finger. Only a few centimeters from the tip, a glowing red pentacle began to slowly materialise from the air. When the final line came into existence, there was a moment of absolute silence, a calm before the storm.

Then there was an intense, white light, much like a magnesium flash. It was followed by a second, even brighter light, brighter than the noonday sun, and so thick as to be almost solid. A massive, explosive boom, followed by a long, thundering growl, made itself known shortly afterwards, and the world went white.

* * *

Jeeves carefully placed yet another cold compress on the young man's sweaty head and then drew back hastily, his manicured fingers already singed.

The cocoon of shimmering heat that surrounded the unconscious Harry Potter had effectively prevented Jeeves from setting him placing him anywhere else than the marble tub in which he currently lay. The boy ignited one bed already, and scorched the expensive rugs badly.

A faint scowl marred Jeeves' normally passive face as he recalled recent events. Lord Archleone had somehow contrived to enter and deposit the boy on the floor while Jeeves was absent. When Jeeves had come back into the room, he'd nearly had a heart attack. The Denarian Lord had told him, as succinctly as possible, what had occurred. He had then commanded the worried Jeeves to take care of the boy, as best he was able, and left posthaste.

Jeeves had accompanied his master through exactly twenty-one similar possession scenarios, but had never seen one quite like this. Normally, the intended host was never rendered unconscious, nor was the shell of heat present.

He was, quite frankly, clueless, and had resorted to merely trying to ensure that the host was not immolated, along with the better part of the hotel room.

The heat waves flared up again, visibly distorting the air for a third time, and Jeeves walked over to the ornate bath faucets and switched the cold water on. The water hissed and boiled as it came into contact with Harry's flushed, superheated skin.

Jeeves frowned, the movement adding to his already hangdog expression. If the master began to increase the heat output, he might very well cause some of the nearer drapes and such to ignite.

Fortunately, however, the child seemed to cool down, as the water no longer began to turn to steam upon skin contact.

Jeeves leaned down and turned the bronze tap until the water ceased to flow, and set off on his epic quest for more towels to make compresses. From behind him, however, there was a sharp hiss, followed by a crackling sound. He hurriedly turned back to the tub, just in time to observe the delicately patterned wallpaper catch fire.

Jeeves immediately seized the blue plastic bucket he had filled with water, in preparation for just such an event. It took him several bucket's worth of water to douse the flames, but they spread no farther than a few feet in the end.

He refilled the bucket and returned it to its former place, and then returned to gaze down at his young charge. It was only then that he noticed what the heat had done to the tub, and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. In several places, the chocolatey marble of the bath was molten and runny.

Moving quickly yet carefully, Jeeves took hold of Harry's shoulders and lifted him straight up and out of the bathtub, and then laid him on the tiled floor. Oddly enough, the contact hadn't burned him at all that time, so Jeeves tentatively touched Harry's brow with the back of his hand.

It felt cool to the touch, and Jeeves rejoiced. Whatever complications had come about when the boy had touched the ancient denarius for the first time appeared to have passed. Placing a hand behind his head and another behind his knees, Jeeves scooped the boy up in his arms and carefully deposited him on the soft sheets of the unburnt bed.

Jeeves carefully drew the sheet and comforter up to Harry's chin and tucked him into bed.

* * *

Harry was lost in the Dream again. It was a frequent occurrence, and had been for as long as he could remember.

Once more, a green sky bore down upon a red field, and Harry was caught in the middle. As the eerie sky grew closer, the wind, which had previously been gently ruffling the red grass, began to pick up. In a matter of seconds, gale-force winds were sweeping the plain, and Harry was forced to hunker down in the tall grass.

The scene stirred vague memories in the darkest corners of his mind, thoughts best left forgotten. Whether he had forgotten them by design or due to the slow passage of time he could not remember. That only served to terrify Harry all the more.

He coughed violently as he inhaled tiny motes of dust and fragments of grass stalks that swirled through the air, and tried to huddle deeper into the thickest patch of grass he could find.

The grass prevented him from being tossed about by the wind, but there was naught it could do about the slowly approaching sky. As it drew closer, time slowed down. It only prolonged this torture, and prepared him for what was to come.

Then the sky was so close that he could have touched it, and so he tried to, as he always did. He tried to touch it, but it was already closer by then, and slippery like oil. And it was heavy, so very heavy, as it bore down upon him. It was as though he was being squeezed by a giant's fist, or crushed into pulp.

Surely, this is what precious stones feel like as they are subjected to great pressure and heat in the fiery depths of the earth. Harry was well acquainted with the pressure, but he yet to pass through the test of fire.

Just as Harry though his body would surely be squashed into nothing more than jelly, the pressure was suddenly gone, and the green sky was turning into night.

The fire was yet to come, but was fast approaching, for Harry was trapped in his worst nightmare, held fast by the grasping talons of Deimos. Escape seemed futile.

The sky had pushed him deep into the ground, and it pinned him there, unable to move. When everything had turned to darkness, it reminded him of nothing less than his hated cupboard. He had tried to curl into a foetal ball, but was unable to do even that.

But as he lay there, tears creating clean streaks down his grimy cheeks, he heard a Voice.

"Be not afraid, for I am with ye, my dear child."

The voice sent tingles up his spine. It was warm, soothing, and plummy, yet also managed to exude authority and confidence. It was the voice of a powerful man who knew that he had power, of the highest echelons of noble blood – in short, the voice of a king or an emperor.

It did not exactly instantly comfort Harry. As time went on, though, as it continued to whisper in his ear, its kindly tone and aura of absolute authority began to drive his terror back into the depths of his mind where it normally lurked, like an unwanted houseguest.

"Take my hand," came the voice once more, and lo! The darkness began to melt away, like butter in a hot frying pan.

A shaft of light pierced the darkness, and it illuminated an outstretched hand. It came from the same source as the light, but so blinding was the light that nothing more could be made of the man to whom it belonged.

At least, Harry assumed it was a man. It might have been Aunt Marge, or someone similar, but she would never speak so kindly to him.

Thinking that nothing could be worse than his current position, Harry lost no time in reaching up and seizing the hand. The hand pulled him forward, somehow overcoming the mighty pull of the sky, and Harry was carried along with it.

He found himself in a most curious place, although that was to be expected of a dream.

It appeared to be some sort of enormous garden, like he'd seen around grand old manors on the telly. But there was something not quite right about the garden, and it took him a moment to catch just what that was.

First off, the garden gave off an appearance of faded glory. Though obviously once magnificent, it did not appear to be maintained very well. The plants were growing wild and randomly and, in many places, had died out entirely. Everywhere, however, the greenery was vastly outnumbered by large, grey, climbing thorns. The thorns choked out plants, climbed trees, and clung to the high walls of the garden.

The walls too, were an oddity in and of themselves. Instead of being built of good mortar and solid brick, these crumbling parapets appeared to be constructed entirely of identical black books.

The tomes were not always in good condition, either; the spines were creased and broken, the pages yellowed and dusty. On and on they went, the endless stacks forming a maze of the garden. Nor were they restricted to the walls. Books paved the path under his feet, made neat borders and planters, and even dry fountains. Here and there loose pages lay on the ground; on occasion, they would be caught up in a miniature tornado, no more than knee-high, and then settle down again.

Harry stood there and watched the pages flutter in the wind for a little while. He thought it rather sad that no-one had kept up the garden. Nonetheless, it was altogether more pleasant than the nightmare he had just escaped.

"The path," whispered the Voice. "Follow the path, and come to me. Follow, and you shall never fear the darkness again."

Harry didn't start walking immediately; he knew he wasn't supposed to trust strangers, let alone follow them.

But he _was_ frightened of the darkness. His fear of the darkness was pathological, deeply embedded with his subconscious mind by long confinement to the dark little cupboard under the stairs. He didn't ever want to go back in the cupboard, especially after his recent dream. The longer he hesitated, the larger the shadows began to grow in the corners of the garden, creeping back into his dreamscape. As he dithered, the shadows grew to cover the wall from which he seemed to have emerged, and emit a sort of gentle gravitational pull. Considering that void, Harry was almost positive he could make out a green sky reaching for him, arms of wind outstretched to seize him and bear him back to the nightmare.

"I can make it so that you need never set foot in the cupboard, if that is what you wish," came the soft promise, sending tingles down his neck. "I can grant you much, Mr. Potter, if only you will agree to speak with me."

It was that assertion that finally convinced Harry to begin down the path. After all, he reasoned, there wasn't really anything bad that could come of a talk. If he didn't like whoever the voice was, he could always leave. It was his dream.

Presently the path he followed came to an abrupt stop at a large wall. Harry looked around carefully for any hidden door, even retraced his steps for a little while, but found no exit from his current part of the garden.

"Sir?" he asked the air hesitantly, wringing his hands. "I can't get past this wall."

The last word had scarcely left his mouth when the wall blocking the path began to crumble and rearrange itself. Books rotated and twisted themselves, moving out from in front of the path and thickening the rest of the wall. After a few moments, a doorway had formed.

"Thank you," Harry said to the air, feeling rather silly.

After walking for almost a quarter of an hour, he came upon a grand structure somewhere near the center of the garden. Like every other construct in the garden, it was made of tens, perhaps even hundreds, of thousands of books. As he drew closer, a small stairway formed, allowing him access to the doorway, which was obscured by dozens of pillars.

"Enter," came the voice, now much louder, as he loitered at the entrance. Harry did so, though he was reminded of every time he'd been called before a teacher for some supposed misdemeanor.

Inside the temple, it was well lit and airy. The floor here was cool, flawless white marble, not books. On and on it stretched, free of both furniture and dirt, until it rose in a series of concentric steps to something not unlike a dais.

Upon that lofty perch sat two wooden chairs, and a table. One of the chairs was occupied, and when Harry got near enough, the occupant was revealed to be an elderly man in a sharp blue suit, white hair carefully combed over his balding head.

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Potter," the old man said kindly, the smile lines about his eyes and mouth creasing. "Cream and sugar?"

"Yes, please," Harry said politely, sitting down. The man seemed nice enough, and Aunt Petunia's lessons about saying please and thank you (even if no-one said that to him) had been deeply ingrained in him by corporeal punishment.

The man made a vaguely mystical gesture with his index and middle finger, folding the others against his palm, and an impressive silver tea set appeared on the table.

Harry watched, mouth open, as the elderly man carefully poured the steaming tea into cups, adding a dash of milk and two sugar cubes to Harry's before stirring it with a tiny spoon and handing it to him.

"You'd best close your mouth, Mr. Potter. We wouldn't want a bird nesting in there, now, would we?"

"How? Wha-?" Harry managed, gesturing at the table in an attempt to further convey his meaning.

"Oh, the tea?" The man winked conspiratorially, and leaned forward.

"Magic, my boy."

"Magic isn't real," Harry said, mimicking Uncle Vernon.

The man didn't seem nearly so harmless now. Harry made sure to scoot his chair back several inches from the older man, so as to make a quick escape easier. He'd picked up that little trick from lifetime spent with his beloved cousin.

"Pish and tosh, my dear boy. What else could it have been that allowed me to materialise a tea set out of thin air?"

"It's a dream, for starters," Harry pointed out, easing himself even further back. "Or you might've had it hidden like a street magician, or something. Magic isn't real."

The odd gentleman snorted, and held a clenched fist out over the table. He opened it gently and slowly, like an unfurling bud, to reveal a tiny emerald flame dancing over his palm.

Yet again, Harry was struck dumb. He reached out with a hesitant hand to touch it, but pulled back at the last minute.

"Touch the flame, child, if you are so convinced that this is a dream. It cannot hurt you if you are indeed correct."

Harry gingerly prodded the flame with a finger, only to find that it was every bit as hot as normal fire. He quickly withdrew his burned finger and stuck it in his mouth.

The older man regarded Harry very seriously with his eerie green eyes.

"Tell me, Mr. Potter, was that you speaking earlier? I heard only the voice of your uncle. You are very young. Is it so outlandish to think that such a thing as magic might exist, outside of your experience and knowledge? I assure you that it is very real. Moreover, you, my boy, are a wizard."

A wizard? Him? How could he possibly be? He'd spent his life being clouted by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn't they been turned into warty toads every time they'd tried to lock him in his cupboard?

"I-I can't be a wizard. Surely you've made some mistake," Harry said desperately. If he was a wizard, he would be different, be odd, and the Dursleys did not hold with oddness. Oddness was punished with the cupboard.

"I do not make mistakes. You are undoubtedly a wand-wizard, like your parents before you. I should not be surprised if you've already managed a bit of accidental magic, when your emotions were running high, hmm?"

Harry paused in his protests. Now he came to think about it. . . every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him had happened when he, Harry, had been upset or angry. . . chased by Dudley's gang, he had somehow found himself out of their reach. . . dreading going to school with a ridiculous haircut, he'd managed to make it grow back.

"I can see you have," the elderly gentleman observed. "Can you deny the existence of magic any longer?"

Harry didn't respond to the question – his mind was awhirl with questions of his own, and his head hurt. Eventually, he came up with one question of overwhelming importance.

"If I'm a wizard, and magic exists, then who are you?"

The wizard blinked. "Ah, I had quite forgotten to introduce myself. How terribly forgetful of me. Where are my manners?"

He stood up sharply, forcing his chair back, and made a slight bow.

"Lord Nathaniel Thorne, at your service, my host. Though I am better known in most circles as Thorned Namshiel. As you may have already deduced, I am a wizard, of sorts, and I was the one who rescued you from your earlier nightmare."

"Lord Nathaniel?" Harry asked. He thought he recognised the name. "The man that Uncle Vernon was sending me to stay with?"

"The same," Namshiel responded. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, would you like to learn magic?"

Harry thought about that for a while. He was already magical, and was already being punished for the magic he did. Perhaps, he dared to hope, that if he learned magic, he would be able to avoid being put into the cupboard or bullied by Dudley.

"What good is learning magic?" he asked.

Mr. Namshiel appeared pleased by the enquiry.

"A most excellent question, my dear boy. Though a better question might be, what good is _not_ learning magic? Magic can be used for almost anything. Why, you might be able to light up a dark space, or even teleport somewhere," he said, eyes glittering. "And between the two of us, if someone was bullying you, you might even be able to make them stop it with magic."

"Then I want to learn magic!" Harry cried. Why, magic sounded almost like an answer to all of his prayers!

"We-ell," Namshiel said slowly, elongating the word. "Most boys of your age aren't allowed to learn magic until they are at least eleven years old. Tell me, are you eleven years old?"

"Yes!" Harry said quickly. Namshiel arched a silver eyebrow at him, and he prodded at the marble with his shoe until he could no longer contain his guilt.

"Ah, I may not be eleven quite yet," Harry admitted, lowering his eyes. "But I'm ten, nearly ten and a half, and that's almost the same thing!"

"Hmm, then you might be able to attend a magical school next year," Namshiel replied, smiling slightly.

Harry felt a stab of disappointment, but then he had an idea.

"Wait! You're a wizard, aren't you? Couldn't you teach me magic?"

"I would be glad to teach you magic, Mr. Potter. Yes, I am a wizard of rather vast knowledge and experience. However," he continued sadly, his eyes growing misty, "I'm afraid that isn't possible right now."

"Why not?" Harry demanded rather sharply, and then winced. The Dursleys had always made sure he didn't demand things- not that he ever would have, anyhow. He didn't want to act like Dudley often did (and in public, no less).

"You see, there was once a very cruel man, whom I worked for. He was rather like your uncle, and so I'm afraid that I didn't care very much for him. As a result of that, and his ordering me about, I told him that I didn't want to work for him anymore. However, this man was an even greater wizard than I, and he didn't take very kindly to that. He cursed me with magic, and trapped me within an old silver Coin. Now, I can never interact with the real world, even to teach nice young men like yourself magic. The only reason that we can speak right now is because you happened to touch that Coin."

Harry was desperate. He didn't want to go back to Privet Drive, not after he found out that magic could let him escape his unhappy life there. And it wasn't fair to trap an old man like Namshiel inside a coin, either.

"That was rotten of him! Is there no way to help you, to get you out of the coin?" he begged, eyes pleading with Namshiel.

Namshiel shook his silver head slowly. "I'm afraid not, my dear child. I can't ever leave my Coin. But I _can_ help you to learn magic, and even add my magic to yours, if you take up that Coin, and agree to let me stay here, in your head. I couldn't blame you if you didn't want to do that. After all, I would always be in there, even though I would be a friend, mentor, and companion. I should understand if you did not want to share it with me."

Harry nodded his acquiescence shakily. It seemed like a small price to pay, especially given that Namshiel was such a nice old man. Then a thought occurred to him.

"You aren't a paedophile, are you?"

Harry wasn't sure what a paedophile was, exactly, but Uncle Vernon had once talked about one that appeared on the evening news. All Harry knew was that they were bad, and generally old men.

Namshiel blinked several times, almost like he was taken aback by the query. Then he broke out into a hearty, fruity laugh oddly disproportionate to his wizened frame.

"No, Mr. Potter, I am not a paedophile, I assure you. After all, I don't even have a body. No, this would be more like my renting out an apartment from you. You would be my host, and I your guest."

"All right, then," Harry said, somewhat dubiously. He didn't understand quite how that would work, but Namshiel seemed to know loads more than him, so he supposed it would be all right.

"You have to say it," Namshiel said, eyes glittering oddly. "You have to use your full Name. Repeat after me: I, Harry James Potter . . ."

"I, Harry James Potter . . ."

"Do accept the Coin of Thorned Namshiel, Knight of the Blackened Denarius, as my companion, and all the duties such a rank entails."

Harry dutifully repeated that, and then peered up into Namshiel's kindly eyes. They were creased with grandfatherly laugh lines that accentuated just how wide and green and deep they were. In their twinkling depths, Harry thought he saw a degree of caring and kindliness that he had never before experienced.

"You'll not abandon me?"

"No. I have borne witness to your oath. You shall be as my beloved son, and I shall be with you, even unto the end of the age," the Fallen responded, gently patting Harry's dark head. "Now, awaken."

 _A/N: The chapter was finally posted, and the was much rejoicing._

 _And, by-the-by, hyperintelligent, extremely manipulative fallen angels who have existed since beginning of Time would know not to immediately reveal their true nature to an eleven-year-old child whose trust they wished to gain. Said child would probably run away, screaming in horror, if they did._


	4. Chapter 3: Let The Games Begin

Chapter III: Let The Games Begin

Harry awoke with a gasp, clutching the soft white sheets around him. His mind was awhirl with emotions, thoughts, and memories of his recent conversation with Namshiel. For a moment, he was frightened- had it all been a dream?

"I am here, my son," came Namshiel's deep voice from somewhere to his right. Harry turned his head to the side, and saw Namshiel there, standing at his shoulder.

"Did that work?" Harry asked worriedly, heart fluttering like a bird. Can you teach me magic now?"

Namshiel chuckled and ruffled Harry's hair. "Most certainly, my host. Look at your left hand."

Harry looked down at his appendage, and immediately screamed. His hand wasn't the same as it had been the night before. Where there had been smooth, unblemished flesh there was now an odd, raised, circular scar. What was worse was that Harry fancied that he could almost feel something moving under the scar.

Mr. Namshiel hurriedly shushed him. "It is of no concern, dear child. This is merely the physical manifestation of our partnership – my Coin, embedded within your flesh. This way, you never need worry about losing it, or having it taken from you."

Harry stopped hollering after Namshiel's reassurances, but he continued hyperventilating.

"You didn't tell me that this would happen!" he accused crossly. He was fairly sure that he would have thought twice about letting someone stick bits of metal in his body!

"If it is the scar that so upsets you, I can remove it," Namshiel offered, extending a hand.

Well, now that Harry thought about it, the scar was rather interesting. But still, he didn't like having a foreign object in his body.

"The scar isn't the problem!" he said snappishly, pulling his arm back. "What if the coin, I don't know, infects me or something? Did you wash it?"

Namshiel arched an imperious eyebrow, making Harry feel rather dense.

"Harry," he began, speaking very slowly and clearly, "believe me when I say that neither infection – nor sickness, for that matter- shall ever bother you again. You are now beyond the mortal ken. Bacteria and viruses do not grow on my coin, in any case. My essence resides within it, and I am very particular about the company I keep."

"Alright," Harry said, poking the raised skin. He'd made his choice, and if he couldn't trust Namshiel, then who was he to trust?

"For now, simply relax. You are in the care of my most trusted friend, excepting yourself. As you will find out shortly, there are benefits apart from the magical involved with becoming my host. I do believe that I hear Jeeves approaching," Namshiel said, and vanished without ceremony. There was a rap at the door.

"Uh—come in," Harry called loudly. He wasn't sure if that was what he was supposed to do. After all, this wasn't his home. He supposed that was both a good and a bad thing.

The heavy door swung open, and an impeccably dressed man of middle age entered, bearing a covered tray.

"Good morning, sir," the man greeted him cheerfully, moving across the carpeted floors as silently as a cat, seeming to almost float across the room.

"And a good morning to you, Mr., um, Jeeves."

Jeeves froze for a second, and then scrutinized Harry intensely, which made him feel uncomfortable. He was a naturally retiring child.

"Curious. Most curious indeed," Harry could've sworn he heard him mutter.

"Pardon me?" asked Harry, mildly offended. Was Mr. Jeeves talking about his hand? He didn't know how the older man might have seen it, but he thought it possible.

"It's nothing, sir. Merely a small cough I've developed. Are you wanting your breakfast now, Mr. Potter, or later?"

"Uh, now, thank you," Harry decided, just as his stomach growled loudly. He really _was_ hungry, and that was saying something The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, exactly, but he'd never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. He'd often had to wait until it was convenient for them to let him out of the cupboard and feed him, which sometimes took a great deal of time. He was accustomed to hunger.

Harry blushed, but Jeeves merely smiled indulgently, removed the silver cover from the platter, and set it on a table.

"Don't worry yourself about it, sir. We'll have you fat and sleek in no time, a true hog of Epicurus' herd."

Harry drooled at the delicious smells wafting from the tray, and could barely stop himself from digging in with his hands when Jeeves set the tray on his lap and removed the silver cover.

"There you are, sir. A full English breakfast. Should you desire more, you need only ring for me," Jeeves informed Harry as he bowed and excused himself.

"'Fank you," Harry replied, voice muffled by a mouthful of fried tomatoes, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with the man's obeisance. Was he bowing to Mr. Namshiel in his head, perhaps?

He nearly choked on a rasher of crisp bacon when Namshiel appeared in front of him.

The man looked him up and down, a faint frown on his face, tapping his fingers against his chin.

"I think that one of the first matters to hand, my child, is to teach you proper manners. No," he pronounced, holding up a hand as Harry sputtered and choked a reply, "it is quite necessary. It may very well be that you have never before had occasion to use proper manners, and therefore no reason to learn them. That is no longer the case."

Harry didn't agree. The only thing that had changed about his world was magic. Manners bought up memories of Aunt Petunia, and her nagging.

"I don't need to learn manners. I'm not going to use them. All I want to learn is magic."

"This is not negotiable," Namshiel declared firmly, shaking his head. "This is not the forgiving, comfortable world of mortals, my host. Etiquette in the magical world is deadlier than any spell or sword. If you refuse to learn, you will die, regardless of your magical power."

Harry swallowed hard.

Maybe, just maybe, manners might be worth learning, he thought to himself.

"Mr. Jeeves shall teach you of such things. When you are finished, I shall begin your instruction in the basic principles of magic, and magical history," Namshiel concluded, vanishing again.

Harry gobbled down the rest of the scrumptious breakfast.

* * *

As Harry Potter slaked his thirst and satisfied his hunger, Namshiel quietly observed from the back of his mindscape. Occasionally, the boy would make a sudden movement, and the Fallen would mentally tense. Nothing ever came of those movements, and so Namshiel eventually concluded that there was nothing left to worry about, though he was still greatly alarmed when Harry choked on a bit of food and began coughing violently.

"It would appear," he murmured contentedly to himself, "that my gamble was largely successful."

Namshiel was no smith, but he knew of the basics of the art. A sword had to be heated, beaten into shape, and the cooled and sharpened. Otherwise, it would bend and give in battle, chip and shatter.

The boy was innocent and righteous, true enough, but Namshiel attributed that partially to inexperience. Children, in his experience, were often capable of more thoughtless and violent acts than the average adult. The only difference was that they were unable to enforce their will upon the world with as much force. Now that he could put that power at Harry's fingertips, the boy would fall. When he did, Namshiel would break him to his will.

He was still unsure as to his actual ability to subsume the boy's consciousness and take over his body, his normal _modus operandi_. Something odd had happened when he entered Harry's mind, some foreign magic had resisted him, materializing itself as a massive granite wall.

He had overcome it, of course- as if any mortal magic could resist one of the Fallen!

The more troubling thing was that the magic had not been completely familiar to him. Elements of it reminded him greatly of sympathetic magic (or blood magic) and yet other parts of wards and lastly – he sneered in disgust- of faith.

He hypothesized that this spell had been responsible for Potter's resistance to the Killing Curse, given the Healer's story. The combination would indeed have been an extraordinarily potent shield, though it would doubtlessly have expended a great deal of its initial power in reflecting the curse. Namshiel also supposed that it was likewise responsible for suppressing the lingering malign magic attached to his Coin. It was possible that it might have raised difficulties concerning full possession in the future, but that was irrelevant. No, what irked him the most was the lingering taint of dark magic surrounding the blood ward. Blood magic was not inherently dark, but there was something about the ward he could not place . . .

Namshiel shook his head, dispelling an odd musky smell that reminded him strongly of Saluriel, and moved his hand over the table once again, Banishing the tea set and creating an ornate black-and-green chessboard.

Namshiel picked up one piece, savoring the illusory feeling of the cool marble beneath his wrinkled fingers, and moved the green pawn forwards.

Pawns were interesting, he reflected. No game could be won without them, and he was playing the longest game.

"Alea iacta est," Namshiel gloated. "Let the game begin anew."

* * *

"Does Mr. Jeeves own this home?" Harry asked the shade of Namshiel as he brushed his teeth.

"No, he does not. Mr. Jeeves is my butler."

Harry colored and put his toothbrush down. "Oh. I'd just thought he was a gentleman or something, just from his clothes."

"No, I'm afraid not. There are slight signs that should inform you, once you know your etiquette. Oh," he added, smiling, "and by-the-by, this is not a house. Unless I am much mistaken, I believe we are at the Langham, in London."

"Whoa," Harry breathed, remembering his drowsy conversation with Mr. Archleone the night before. "Mr. Archleone said you were staying at a hotel, but he didn't say it was such a posh one!"

"Mr. Archleone? Ah, you must mean Nicodemus."

"Is he a butler too?" Harry enquired. He liked Mr. Archleone; he'd seemed very friendly, if not as kind and fatherly as Namshiel. "Or he is your friend? Will I see him again soon?"

Namshiel's voice took on a slight icy cast when he replied. "Nicodemus is a business associate, of sorts. I wouldn't call him a friend, exactly, but I do see him rather regularly. He is, loosely speaking, my superior. Never, ever, offer him insult or cross him in any way. Do you understand?"

"Why?" Harry badgered. "He seemed like such a nice man."

"Do you understand me Harry Potter!?" Namshiel boomed, looming over him. In the room, the fire flared and shadows crept up the wall, reminding Harry of his recent experience in the Garden.

"Yes, Mr. Namshiel," Harry said, recoiling slightly from the dark figure in front of him. He didn't understand why Mr. Namshiel was so angry!

"In any event, Mr. Potter," Mr. Namshiel told him, voice growing kinder, as the room returned to normal, "it is time to learn some magic, no?"

Harry's eyes lit up and he nodded violently, excited. Namshiel's lips twitched in amusement, but he guided Harry to the main room, where he began to speak in his soothing voice.

"Magic," he pronounced gravely, "is the force of Creation. It is the cause of all that has ever been, all that ever shall be in this plane, and is the most powerful force to exist."

Harry listened attentively, his eyes wide. He hadn't realised magic was so powerful, so important!

"Think of it as energy as much as power and belief," Namshiel continued. "For a price, it allows you to alter reality on a fundamental level. This is, however, where general magic splits into several paths: faith, fundamental, true, and wand-based magic. For your purposes, you ever need only concern yourself with the last two, and for now, the last one in particular. You are a natural wand-wizard. The ability to use wand- magic is a hereditary trait passed down from a person's ancestors, which allows witches and wizards to practise witchcraft and wizardry."

Harry didn't really understand that at all, and he told Mr. Namshiel so, and the older man sighed.

"You are very young, Mr. Potter. At this early stage, a practical lesson be in order, but I shall expect you to learn more of the theory at a later date. For now, we shall settle for a bit of wandless magic. Now, repeat after me: _Accio_."

" _Accio_!" Harry exclaimed loudly, concentrating until he was red in the face and his eyes bugged out. To his disappointment, nothing happened.

" _Accio_ ," Namshiel commanded smoothly, casually flipping his hand at a nearby chair, which immediately leapt forward several feet.

" _Accio_!" Harry hollered again, trying to mimic Namshiel's gestures, but to no result. He scrunched his face up in disappointment.

"Why isn't it working for me?" Harry pouted, thrusting his bottom lip forward. It worked just fine for Namshiel, and it looked easy as well! It wasn't fair!"

"It takes practice, and a solid grounding in magical theory, my dear child. First principles, my host. Simplicity. Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular thing ask: what is it in itself? What is its nature?"

Harry stared at Namshiel. He thought he could feel his brains oozing out his ears. Namshiel noticed this, and heaved a great sigh.

"Or, in the case of some young boys, merely lots and lots of practice."

* * *

"Please take a seat, Mr. Potter," Jeeves smiled warmly at him. "I've taken the liberty of serving dinner, as per those instructions of Mr. Namshiel's that you relayed to me earlier. I do hope it is acceptable to you."

"Perfectly," Harry acquiesced, happily sitting down at the table. He was of a less-than-average height, and so had some difficulties in managing the utensils at the tall table. Eventually, he discovered that grasping them as though he intended to suffocate them worked quite well, even if he was forced to harpoon his dinner like a whaler of old.

This was his first time, however, dining with Jeeves, and the butler immediately corrected him on the use of his utensils.

"The spoon and fork are not generally used over-hand, but under, in polite society," Jeeves remarked rather wryly. "Nor is your knife the weapon with which you intend to skewer a wild boar."

Harry blushed crimson (it happened a rather lot, these days, he realised), but the good humor in which Jeeves obviously intended the remark prevented any tantrums, crying, or other untoward behavior.

"Why do I have to learn about manners and etiquette and stuff, Mr. Jeeves?" asked Harry, switching his grip on his utensils. "Mr. Namshiel said that sometimes people even died if they didn't know about it!"

"That's very true," Mr. Jeeves said solemnly, looking him in the eye. "Wars have been started over breaches of etiquette in the supernatural world, you know. One very recent one is still ongoing, I believe."

"How did it start?" asked Harry, his mouth full. He wondered if perhaps the instigator had used his utensils wrong too. But why on earth would someone start a war over that?

 _Etiquette is more than table manners, dear host_ , Harry could hear Namshiel whisper to him, breaking his long silence.

"It's a rather long story," Jeeves told him, gesturing for him to wipe his mouth. "Are you quite sure you want to hear it?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Harry chanted until Jeeves relented and began to weave the story for him.

"You see, Mr. Potter, there once was a very silly wizard who accepted an invitation to a masquerade ball, hosted by some acquaintances of mine. However, an acquaintance (of the female persuasion) of his also wished to attend and that presented a problem, for . . ."

* * *

"Again," Namshiel demanded, no mercy in his voice.

"But I don't want to!" Harry protested, bored out of his mind. "This has got to be the most useless spell ever! Nothing is even happening!"

"Perhaps," Namshiel commented testily, "if you put more effort into understanding the magic and theory behind the Summoning Charm, you might have better results at wandless casting."

"Not the books again," Harry grumbled, dramatically throwing a hand over his eyes. Even trying to cast useless spells was better than boring old books. Nathaniel and Jeeves were both sticklers for books, especially if they contained absolutely no pictures and printed in minute script in double columns on every page.

 _But it's better than the Dursleys,_ his conscience reminded him. _Loads better_.

"Knowledge is power, my dear child, and knowledge of the arcane is the highest order thereof," Namshiel began, only for Harry to bury his head under a cushion on the nearby sofa.

The Fallen began to knead his illusory brow. He could feel a headache coming on, despite his complete and utter lack of a physical head. He was not accustomed to working with hosts, let alone young ones.

"Then again," he permitted, "I suppose that I might show you a small feat of greater magic."

Harry jerked his head out from under the cushion. Greater magic?! That sounded promising, and significantly more exciting.

"Greater magic? Is that like what I've been learning?"

Namshiel shook his venerable head.

"No, Mr. Potter. First off, it is debatable as to whether you have actually learned any magic. Secondly, the magic that I have been attempting to teach you is mere wand-magic. Greater magic, true magic, is significantly more powerful than wand-magic. The two are as different as night and day. You are a natural-born wand-wizard, my boy, but have no natural talents in true magic."

Harry's shoulders slumped.

"It is the case," Namshiel went on, "however, that you were fortunate enough to take up a certain silver Coin. It is within my abilities to allow you to develop true magic, to grant you the same power a trueborn wizard would wield. But all power has its price."

"What price?" demanded Harry suspiciously. He rather suspected another lesson magical theory was waiting in the wings, and he wanted to avoid it. He found such lessons to be detrimental to his health and sanity.

"Discipline," Namshiel explained. "It is an absolute necessity. The power wielded by wand-wizards is insignificant next to the power of a trueborn wizard, let alone one drawing upon my power. Until I can be sure that you can wield such might properly, apply it carefully, and have abandoned the naïve notions of childhood, I will not teach you."

Namshiel's eyes glittered.

"But perhaps a taste of that power is in order, to whet your appetite . . .," he drawled, whirling to extend a hand towards one of the walls in the dreamscape.

"Fuego," he hissed madly, "pyrofuego!"

Now it was Harry's eyes that glittered, reflecting the firelight as he watched with an open mouth.

At that moment, he promised himself that he would learn this true magic, whatever the cost. This, this was power, of the kind normal people could only dream of. If he knew it, he'd never be bullied again, never be forced into the cupboard again. Then he would be the one in control, the one with the friends and expensive toys.

And Namshiel would teach it to him.

* * *

It was a very different Harry Potter who was staring into the fireplace an indeterminate amount of time later. It was a quiet thing, the difference, and not one of the physical kind. Harry looked almost the same, save for one thing.

Save for his eyes.

Those eyes, once as green as freshly pickled toads, now seemed to glow faintly with a sickly green light. It was a subtle thing, hardly noticeable save in the darkest of moonless night.

He was happy, though, living with Jeeves and Namshiel, in some posh manor that Jeeves had contrived to rent. Under Jeeves' instruction, he had picked up many of the finer points of etiquette. As a matter of fact, he found it a curiously compelling subject. It made him feel rather upper-class, even like nobility, to show off the manners he had learned.

The fact that he would most probably die if he made a misstep in that area also heavily encouraged him to adhere to it as though it were a law of physics.

Under Namshiel's guidance, he learnt more of the secret world of magic. But he also learnt some small measure of discipline – the old man would brook neither disobedience nor disrespect.

 _Again_ , came Namshiel's voice in his head.

Harry sucked in a deep breath, and then carefully reached out a hand, extending his will,

"Accio," he murmured, drawing his hand in as though he were grabbing something. Across the room, a gilded candlestick shuddered, and then reluctantly began to move towards Harry's hand at a slow pace. Only a few inches from its destination, however, it stuttered in its movement and fell to the ground.

"See?" Harry said proudly, hoisting the object aloft. "It's perfect!"

 _Hardly_ , he heard Namshiel sniff disparagingly _. You have proved able to cast only one wandless spell in all the months I have been teaching you. Only one wand-spell of any type, I might add. Still, it was not . . . badly done._

Harry scowled. He didn't like being reminded of his constant failures with wandless magic. It lowered his self-esteem, which the workers at school had always told the children was A Very Bad Thing.

Then again, that had never really seemed to apply to him. His self-esteem was plenty low from living with the Dursleys, Dudley in particular.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered petulantly, pulling a face. "Why can't I have a wand, anyhow?"

"We've been over this," Namshiel reminded him, suddenly materializing. "It is not yet time for you to enter the wizarding world, and wands can only be purchased there. In any case, your aptitude for true magic more than makes up for your inadequacies., in the area of wand-magic. I must admit to being rather surprised. I would have thought the opposite to be true."

Harry puffed out his chest slightly. See? He didn't need to learn wand-magic after all!

"Perhaps your time at a magical school will improve your abilities in that respect. I hardly consider myself a master of wand-magic. I'm sure that your teachers there are more qualified than myself."

"School?" Harry queried, trying to divine what Namshiel had in mind. He didn't remember ever talking about any magical school, really. He'd just assumed Namshiel would continue to tutor him. Truth be told, he hadn't even though much about other wizards. Namshiel had taught him everything about them that he thought Harry needed to know, and that was that.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, school. It is customary for British wizards to attend one Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, if I'm not mistaken."

"Sounds silly," Harry commented after a moment's consideration. Truly, it sounded as though someone who had only a passing grasp of the English language had a few pints too many and then decided to go about naming farmyard animals. Or, perhaps, naming Dursleys.

"The name of the school is hardly relevant," Namshiel stated, apparently miffed. "You are expected to attend that school, and so you shall. You cannot afford to act remotely abnormal."

"Why not?"

"Three reasons," Namshiel began, counting them off on his fingers. "Firstly, there is my existence. I have many enemies, Harry. You cannot let it be known that I have been teaching you, for they would surely seek revenge on me by harming you. Even your friends might turn against you if they learned about me. They would not understand our bond, how I love you like my own son."

Harry tried to stop his eyes from watering at the sad tone of the old man's voice. It ripped at his heart, to think that anyone might try to hurt him or Namshiel simply because they did not understand them. Namshiel, who had shown him so many wondrous things, and been more affectionate towards him than his own flesh and blood. He angrily dashed at his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper.

"Secondly," Namshiel continued, affecting to not notice Harry's tears (for which Harry was grateful), "the wand-wizards of Britain (and probably all wand wizards, come to think of it) know nothing of trueborn wizardry. If you let it slip that you possess the powers of a trueborn, I cannot say what might occur. Thirdly, I have reason to believe that you also have enemies amongst the wizarding community."

Harry was shocked. "Me?" he protested incredulously, wet eyes forgotten. He hadn't even known of the existence of magic before Namshiel bonded to him. "But I don't know anyone magical!"

"I rather suspect it has less to do with you personally," Nathaniel mused, "than the circumstances surrounding the admittedly mysterious demise of your parents."

There was an uncomfortable silence as Harry processed that bit of information.

"Did you know my parents? Did they really die in a car crash?"

Namshiel sighed.

"Harry, I have not meddled in the affairs of wand-wizards in centuries. I'm afraid I didn't know your parents. As to the manner of their deaths, I confess that I am ignorant. All I know is that they were listed in the registry as having died of natural causes, not in an automobile accident. If I knew anything more, I would have informed you immediately."

"Oh," Harry said in a small voice. He'd hoped Namshiel, who seemed to know everything, could tell him more.

"In any case," Namshiel said sternly, jerking Harry out of his gloomy thoughts, "you cannot possibly receive anyone here. To keep up appearances, no-one must ever know that you left the Dursleys."

"Oh, no!" Harry retorted vehemently, shaking his head, dark curls bouncing. Absolutely not! Of all places, he least wanted to visit, Number Four Privet Drive was at the top.

"Oh, yes," Namshiel parried. "Why do you fear to return there, my child? They cannot touch you now. You are, for all purposes, a young god amongst insects. With my aid, you will find life there more than tolerable. How does a spot of revenge sound?"

"Revenge?" Harry asked. "How do you mean?"

"Young Dudley looks almost like a porker," Nathaniel pointed out, amusement dancing in his eyes. "And all porkers have curly tails. We can't have a porker without a curly tail, now, can we?"

Harry smiled wickedly.

* * *

Uncle Vernon was busy watching the news from his big armchair, as he did every evening. He was slouched there, eyes barely open as he attempted to conserve as much brainpower as possible. Had anyone else seen him, they might have concluded that someone had poured a heaping serving of gravy into his clothes and let it form a skin.

He was interrupted most rudely when he heard the rumble of an engine just outside his home. He did his level best to ignore it, as he was a tolerant man, but the sound kept on going. Perhaps the vehicle was simply sitting there, idling?

After a dozen or so minutes of constant annoyance, Vernon heaved himself out of his armchair, switched off the telly, and opened the door to see what was going on and tell off the driver. He stopped in his tracks when he caught his first glimpse of the white Rolls-Royce. Vernon often judged men by what cars they drove, and he was speechless at the sight.

He nearly went into some sort of fit when none other than his ungrateful little nephew hopped out of the car, smearing his grubby little fingers on the handle.

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon boomed. "What in blazes are you doing back here, and in such a car!?"

* * *

Harry looked at the blustering, red man. He felt rather like he imagined matadors did when confronted by a snorting bull. An immensely overweight, clumsy, and admittedly dull bull, but a bull nonetheless.

 _Remember_ , came Namshiel's soothing voice. _Remember your lessons, my beloved son. This man holds no power over you. Play him, like a puppet on a string, a fish on a line. You need only repeat what I say. . ._

He smiled as the silky words wormed their way through his brain.

"And it is so nice to see you again too, Uncle Vernon," he remarked sarcastically, trying to imitate Namshiel's aristocratic mien and wintery voice as best he could (but not quite getting there. His prepubescent voice wasn't nearly authoritative enough). "Surely you didn't forget that I was only supposed to stay with Lord Nathaniel for a few months? It's been nearly eight months, now."

Uncle Vernon started at Harry's tone and abnormally sophisticated sentences. He narrowed his piggy little eyes at his nephew.

"What have you done?" he hissed. "You'd better not have lost me my investment, boy!"

"On the contrary," Harry responded blandly, repeating what Namshiel was whispering to him, "I have secured it. Mr. Namshiel was most pleased by my behavior, and sent along someone to see the deal through."

Then the driver's side door opened and closed, and Jeeves stepped out onto the lawn of Privet Drive. As always, Jeeves was dressed impeccably, an exuded an aura of propriety and control. Namshiel had been confident that Jeeves could deal with Uncle Vernon, and Harry believed him. His trust was soon validated.

"Mr. Dursley," Jeeves put in, voice oozing charm and authority, "I think we should talk about this inside. It's hardly fitting to discuss important matters on the lawn, like some common rabble."

"Of course, of course," Vernon simpered, his arrogant manner becoming obsequious. He led the others inside, bowing and scraping before Jeeves, to Harry's disgust. To take his mind off of the revolting sight, he began pondering all the ways in which he could now use magic to make Dudley's life miserable.

Was that wrong? Harry certainly didn't think so. Turnabout was fair play, and Dudley had had it coming for a long, long times.

 _Might I give him a tail yet?_ he mentally inquired of Namshiel. He received a curt denial in response and then proceeded to trail after Jeeves, stung.

They passed through Aunt Petunia's immaculate entryway, and went straight into the sitting room. Harry did his best to make himself inconspicuous while Jeeves sat down across from Uncle Vernon.

"Vernon!" Aunt Petunia called from the other room. "What are you doing?"

"Business!" his uncle responded. "The boy is back, along with someone from Sir Nathaniel!"

"Lord Nathaniel," Jeeves corrected him as Aunt Petunia hurried into the room with a hastily constructed tray of refreshments.

"Mr. Archleone told me he was a Sir!" Uncle Vernon sputtered in amazement. He looked a rather lot like a video of an elephant seal Harry had seen on the television. So much so, in fact, that Harry was forced to cover his mouth so they wouldn't see him smiling.

In the back of his mind, he fancied he heard a faint sigh of exasperation.

"It's a relatively recent development," Jeeves said delicately. "It is entirely possible that Mr. Archleone was unaware of the title."

"A Lord, doing business with me," Uncle Vernon whispered. "Who would have thought it? In any case, sir, how can I help you?"

"Well, Mr. Dursley, fortunately for you, Lord Nathaniel was most taken with the boy. Reminds him of his deceased son, and he dotes upon your nephew like he was his own child."

Vernon's mouth fell open as he looked at Harry, who smirked at him.

"Harry didn't do anything odd, or behave like a juvenile delinquent?"

Jeeves shook his head. "On the contrary, sir; he conducted himself like a perfect gentleman. I was most impressed by such behavior, given his tender age."

"I'm warning you," Uncle Vernon blustered. "He's tricked you. I don't know how he's managed to trick you, but I know he has. The boy is a good-for-nothing, a truant, a – a—blighter!"

Jeeves held up a large hand, halting Uncle Vernon's mad rant.

"Lord Nathaniel," he chided softly, "does not share your pessimistic appraisal of the child. He believes him to have unmatched potential. Moreover, should you ever meet with him, I would refrain from saying such things in his presence, seeing as Harry reminds him of his beloved son. The good man has a short temper."

Uncle Vernon was quiet, but he glared at Harry, who had been standing in the corner. At first Harry shrunk back, but then the soothing whispers started up again in the back of his mind and he glared right back. He'd had quite enough of being bullied by Uncle Vernon, thank you very much.

"But young Mr. Potter is not why I am here, at least not primarily" Mr. Jeeves lied, dragging Uncle Vernon's gaze away from Harry. "I am here to tell you that at young Mr. Potter's urging, Lord Nathaniel had decided to go about investing in Grunnings, with some conditions."

"Well then, let's have them!" exclaimed Uncle Vernon, but Mr. Jeeves was momentarily prevented from replying by the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

"Boy," Vernon began, but then caught himself. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

"Ah, Harry, would you mind getting the mail?"

"Of course not, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied pleasantly, and went off to get the mail. He was glad to get away from Uncle Vernon's forced politeness. He knew his uncle wouldn't be half so kind if Mr. Jeeves weren't there, and suspected Uncle Vernon might try to lock him in the cupboard after Jeeves left.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who appeared to be vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and - a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. This had to be it, for no one else, save perhaps Jeeves, would have written to him. He had no friends, no other relatives - he didn't belong to the library, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for books back, and he had been gone for months. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

 _Mr. H. Potter_

 _The Cupboard under the Stairs_

 _4 Privet Drive,_

 _Little Whinging,_

 _Surrey_

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling with excitement, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

 _It is here_. _It has come. I can sense the magic. Bring the letter unto your guardian, and all shall be revealed._

* * *

"The mail, Uncle Vernon," Harry reported, presenting the mail to him during a lull in the conversation for a tea break. Vernon grabbed the letters and hurriedly thumbed through them, Dudley looking over his shoulder. Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk."

"Da!" Dudley gasped, tugging at the final item. "Look, this letter is addressed to Harry!"

"Who'd be writing to him?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped, Mr. Jeeves altogether forgotten.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment, it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh, my goodness - Vernon! Whatever will we do?"

"Ignore it," he said finally. "Yes, that it. We'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer. . . Yes, that's best. . . we won't do anything. . ."

"But-"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"

"Unfortunately, Mr. Dursley," Jeeves boomed, voice growing unusually deep and harsh as he rose up and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, "that's no longer your decision."

There was complete and utter silence in the room.

"No longer my decision?" Vernon scoffed. "Pah! What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say," Jeeves returned. "Lord Nathaniel sees an opportunity in sending the child to Hogwarts. It would be most unwise to oppose him."

"That name!" gasped Aunt Petunia. "How do you know that name?"

"Please, madam," Jeeves said, "surely you did not think you were the only so-called 'Muggles' to be aware of the magical community? In the highest echelons of our government and society, you will find those who know all about magic and wizards."

Uncle Vernon turned an alarming shade of purple. Harry thought he now looked like an eggplant.

Hmm, steamed eggplant. Now there was an idea, Harry thought. Then he realized what he had just contemplated doing, and shoved it to the back of his mind in horror.

"By Jove!" Vernon roared. "It's a conspiracy!"

"Yes, I suppose it is a conspiracy of sorts," Jeeves allowed blandly. "But do not seek to meddle in the affairs of wizards, Mr. Dursley, or of the magical world at large. Far older and more dangerous things than wizards exist, and if you delve too deeply you shall inevitably cross one. But that is neither here nor there. For now, you shall be sending your son to Hogwarts."

"I most certainly will not! How dare you, sir, to speak to me like that in my own house!"

"That's enough, Uncle Vernon," Harry commanded, finally entering the debate. "Why are you so dead-set against my learning magic?"

"Now, you listen here, boy," he snarled, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured - and your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world's better off without them in my opinion - asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types - just what I expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end-"

"My parents? "Harry whispered, his anger growing. "The parents you told me died in a car crash? That you've always insisted were good-for-nothing bums?"

"They were!" Aunt Petunia shrieked suddenly. "And you will be too! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that school-and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!"

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.

"Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as - as - abnormal - and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"

"Yeah," Dudley parroted, obviously unaware of what was going on, but unwilling to miss an opportunity to insult Harry, "and then we got stuck with you, freak!"

Harry was angry right then, so intensely angry that he felt as though he might catch flame. They had insulted his parents, and in doing so, him! _He, who was so far above them as to be unreachable! He couldn't let this insult pass!_

He knew only one release, one way to stop the murderous rage that was burning up within him, one way to repay the Dursleys for their insults, and that was magic.

"You could always give him a tail," Namshiel whispered in his ear, "but that's not what you want right now, is it? Something more . . . substantial . . . is in order. You may not know the words, but you have the Will."

 _Fire, perhaps_? Would Dudley burn like a tallow candle, thrashing madly as the fire consumed him? Would he smell like cooking bacon? _Or maybe lightning_ , to see the spasms as the muscles tore themselves apart, as he was wracked with convulsions?

He had already unconsciously gathered the necessary raw power about him, leashed it to his will, when the enormity of what he was about to do stuck him, and he changed his intention mid-thought

" _Hexus!_ " Harry snapped, channeling the raging magic into the first and weakest Namshiel had taught him.

Sparks flew all about as the magic hit the power lines situated throughout the Dursley home, knocking out the lights, burning out the radios and television, and generally wreaking havoc. But the magic was powerful, fueled by negative emotions, and perhaps something darker.

The entirety of Number 4 Privet Drive went dark, the only illumination provided by the setting sun.

Harry breathed deep of the sulfur-scented air as he directed his gaze towards the cowering Dursleys. Petunia and Vernon were frozen on the settee, which Dudley had somehow contrived to squeeze behind. Petunia's tea dropped from her nerveless hands, soiling the spotless rug.

Namshiel appeared in the corner of his vision, and sighed disappointedly before disappearing.

"I believe I had said something about maintaining control, Harry. That was not control or focused retribution. That was wanton, purposeless destruction. Tut, tut."

Harry didn't respond, too shocked by his burst of murderous rage. He'd been about to kill Dudley, for Heaven's sakes!

 _You are becoming hysterical, Harry. Calm down. I assure you that your actions were entirely justified, and I support them._

 _Justified?_ Harry mentally shrieked, hands shaking uncontrollably. _I might have killed Dudley! How on earth is that justified?_

 _You were justified, my host_ , Jeeves said, his calm voice cutting through Harry's panic, _because you are my host. Nothing came of your actions. By virtue of my sponsorship alone, may not all things you do be justified? May your wrongs not be forgiven? Moreover, would that not have been justice, however extreme, for the hurts he inflicted upon you?_

 _What? That isn't right! What if-if I had actually hurt him?_

 _In that case, I rather imagine the world would have been in your debt._

Jeeves gently pushed the stunned child back down onto his seat, and then turned to loom over the petrified Dursleys.

"I believe that young Harry has just proven my point, about not meddling with wizards," he remarked dryly. "And he is young, untrained. You would more than likely see a repeat incident if he did not receive proper training."

"A repeat incident?" whispered a pale Uncle Vernon. "A repeat incident? The damned boy just about destroyed our house!"

"I'm sure that Lord Nathaniel would be more than happy to compensate you," Jeeves offered, smoothly glossing over the shorter man's protests.

Vernon continued to complain.

"Twice over."

Vernon snapped his mouth shut, and then looked over to Petunia.

"Petunia, dearest? Is what this man says about wizards true?"

"I-I couldn't say for certain," Petunia said, cowed by what she had just seen, "but I believe so. Lily also had some incidents when she was a child. I think they said something of the sort to Mother and Father."

Vernon appeared to think this over hard with his tiny brain.

"I'm not paying for some crackpot old fool to teach that piker magic tricks!" he roared when he made up his mind.

Jeeves didn't bat an eye. "And here, I think, we come to the crux of the problem. Why exactly, Mr. Dursley, do you so loathe magic?"

"It's unnatural, loathsome! It leads to nothing but sloth and-"

"You are listing qualities which you dislike about it, Mr. Dursley. None of those are sufficient reason to so loathe it."

"The people who practice it are odd, and unfit for decent society. They live on unemployment and ride brooms, for Chrissake! Just look at James Potter!" Vernon glowered.

"I suppose that is a reasonable assumption to make," Jeeves allowed. "True, many wizards and witches of the more common variety are people that one ought not be seen in public with. And it is not altogether unreasonable to assume that they have no money. That is, however, a great error, and one that I feel you need to be corrected on."

"What d'you mean?"

"Pound-for-pound, Mr. Dursley, the average wizard is wealthier than the average Muggle-"

"Hate that bloody word," Vernon growled from behind clenched teeth.

"-normal person, then. The economy is so well-off that it is actually still based entirely upon the gold standard. Expensive luxuries can be conjured up in the blink of an eye. Many of the wealthier families have extensive faults, filled with hereditary treasure."

"He was telling the truth, then," Vernon gasped, seemingly amazed. Harry didn't ever remember seeing him in such a state before, with his chubby mouth hanging open, and his piggy eyes wide. "That bastard was telling the truth!"

"I do not know to whom you refer, sir, but most probably. What is of the utmost concern to you, however, is how you might profit by it. I'm rather alarmed that a man of such sharp business acumen as you are reputed to be had not already thought of it."

"How, exactly?" Uncle Vernon asked quickly, an avaricious gleam in his eyes. "Exploiting their gold standard currency, perhaps."

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be a very good idea, Mr. Dursley. The coinage is heavily enchanted, and its secrets zealously guarded by vicious creatures. No, I was referring to the use of magic to better the Grunnings company as a whole."

Vernon was stumped. "How would that work?"

"You make drills, do you not? I thought so. Then imagine this: using dross metal to create your drills. Normally, of course, such a drill would never pass inspection. But have a wizard cast a weak Unbreakable charm on the drills, so that it will fade away after some use. The savings on that alone would be astronomical. It would be far more difficult, but a proficient enough wizard might create the drill bits out of rock or dirt. There are some issues involving the integration of technology with magic, but I believe it would work on something as simple as drills. Even if that were not the case, my lord knows several persons who have been working upon reconciling the two."

A gobsmacked Uncle Vernon was heavily salivating a Jeeves continued.

"But the benefits needn't end there. An enhanced lifespan for you and your family, infallible medicines, and perhaps even physical alterations. Important contacts, even as prominent as members of the royal family. The possibilities are limitless. You need only stretch out your hand and seize the opportunity. Harry Potter could forge that crucial link between yourself and the wizards, if you would only set aside your prejudice and stand with Lord Namshiel and his associates."

 _Note: Readers may expect a Rating change around the end of First Year. However, this is not, and will never be, a fiction centered around romance._


	5. Chapter 4: For Hate's Sake

Chapter IV: For Hate's Sake

There was silence in the dark room as the Dursleys sat quietly, thinking. Harry could not tell exactly what they were thinking about, but he could guess the general gist of it. Jeeves had done a superb job of playing on Vernon and Petunia's greed and petty self-absorption. He'd even managed to salvage the volatile situation after Harry's outburst.

"How much money are we talking about?" asked Uncle Vernon greedily.

"That all depends on how successfully you can implement magic, Mr. Dursley. Perhaps billions for Grunnings, in the long run."

Aunt Petunia gasped, but Uncle Vernon did an odd little dance. Harry supposed he was ecstatic at the mere thought of all that wealth, but found that he could hardly blame the man. Despite all his faults, Harry had always known that Uncle Vernon worked very hard at Grunnings. He'd probably do well with this as well, assuming he managed to become less of a bigot.

"And I shan't be paying for his schooling?"

"Of course not. Lord Nathaniel provides for his own."

 _The critical moment is now_ , came the whispers. _Speak, my son, and they will listen. Ask your uncle for his decision. If he refuses, which I doubt, there are other recourses._

Mustering his courage and doing his best to forget the recent unpleasantries, Harry stepped forward.

"So, Uncle Vernon, what do you say?"

Vernon seemed to avoid looking directly at Harry when he replied, instead addressing Jeeves. Harry did not appreciate the gesture. He was the important one here, as Namshiel reassured him.

"You can tell Lord Nathaniel," he proclaimed, smiling broadly, "that this has cast the matter in an entirely new light. An entirely new light, I say! After all, if some of the foremost peers in the realm are willing to consort with wizards for the good of the nation, can I do any less for my family and company?"

Harry nearly vomited, but Jeeves did not appear as susceptible to the revolting spectacle of false humility.

"It is settled, then," Jeeves remarked in a satisfied tone. "Mr. Potter shall remain with you until such time as he is contacted by the school. Afterwards, you shall never see him again, save for business or social matters."

Both Harry and Uncle Vernon found this immensely satisfactory, though Harry was still rather peeved about having to stay with the Dursleys, even for a short time.

"It's a deal, then," Uncle Vernon concluded, settling back into the sofa.

"I bear witness to Vernon Dursley's assent to this bargain," Jeeves attested.

 _Repeat after Jeeves_.

Harry repeated that little tidbit, whilst Vernon sat there, looking uncomfortable. Harry supposed that Uncle Vernon was worried that they were cursing him or something. However, Namshiel said that things did not work that way in the supernatural world.

 _An oath is an oath, my dear boy. One does not break it without suffering severe repercussions. Your Uncle ought to be more careful._

* * *

Some days later, Harry lay on the floor in Dudley's second bedroom. Uncle Vernon evidently considered it a worthy sacrifice to keep himself in Lord Nathaniel's good graces. Judging from the tone of Namshiel's whispers, Harry doubted it had worked.

He drew forth the creased letter once again and smoothed it open. He had already read over it a dozen times since Uncle Vernon had given it to him, but it had lost none of its mysterious allure. In ornate green letters, it read:

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE_

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall,_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

Harry hadn't been altogether sure how to respond (he did not have, nor did he wish to have, an owl), but Jeeves merely looked the letter over once and replied that he would take care of it. Namshiel had declined to share any further details on the matter (apart from a rather pithy observation involving avian mail services), but Jeeves had rung the Dursleys over a day ago to inform them that a Hogwarts Professor would be arriving the following day.

Casting the letter aside, Harry fished the list of school supplies that had been included in the envelope.

Skimming over the inconsequential clothing requirements (which would have doubtless offended Jeeves' peerless sense of proper fashion), Harry came to the required books.

 _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade_ 1 by Miranda Goshawk.

"Interesting," came Namshiel's voice. Harry did not stir - he was accustomed to such things by now. His mentor appeared to have materialized once more in the physical world, and was reading the list over his shoulder. "Though I do not believe it shall be quite suited to the pace at which I intend to teach you. You shall need to acquire the more advanced texts." Harry winced at that, but continued reading.

 _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot was next, but Namshiel dismissed this as inconsequential.

"Any book of wizarding history you come across here will be both incorrect and, more dangerously, deluded. Pay them no mind. If you take what they have to say at face value, you will completely unprepared for the reality of the world."

"Why? Don't the wizards know their own history?"

"To some extent," Namshiel conceded. "However, what they fail to realise, or what is kept from them, is that they are not alone in this world. As such, they attribute many important discoveries or actions to wand-wizards, which are historically inaccurate."

 _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling was also pronounced interesting, as was _A Beginner's Guide_ to _Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch.

Both _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Spore and _Magical Drafts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger were sneered at.

"I have learnt all there is to know of potion-making, of every sort," Namshiel scoffed. "You need not trouble yourself with such rubbish."

 _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander appeared to greatly amuse Namshiel, for some reason.

"They don't know the half of it," he revealed. Harry assumed he was referring to the greater supernatural community and trueborn wizards.

 _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble was also summarily dismissed.

"And a wand, too" Harry read aloud.

"I thought that I couldn't get a wand," he said, turning to Namshiel.

"Now that you are of age, you certainly can. But you should have no knowledge of the wizarding world at all. To act otherwise would be to invite suspicion, and buying a wand certainly would. That is also," Namshiel reminded him, "why you must pretend as though you have had no contact with the wizarding world since your birth when the Hogwarts representative arrives. If you do not, Bad Things could happen. Why, they might take me away from you, or even lock you in your cupboard once again."

Harry shivered but nodded his understanding, and then read off the last bit of text.

"Students may also bring an Owl, a Cat or a Toad," he quoted, "but parents are reminded that first years are not allowed their own broomsticks."

The broom bit was fine, especially given that it was a school rule. It would have been nice to fly, as he loved open spaces, but it also seemed like an excellent way to plummet to his premature death.

"No broom," Namshiel declared, his voice holding all the sympathy of a firing squad.

"Fine," Harry finagled, "but might I get an owl, cat or toad?"

"We shall see," Namshiel decided eventually, glaring at Harry with an authoritative eye. "I have something useful in mind, should you purchase a pet. A toad or a frog, perhaps."

"Frogs don't count as toads," Harry protested. "That could get me in trouble."

Namshiel waved a hand. "Semantics. The species are close enough. It would not be a pet for you to amuse yourself with, however. It would be for one purpose, and one purpose only."

Harry was about to interrogate him further on the subject of frogs and toads, but there was a sharp rap at the door and Namshiel retreated inside his head.

 _A wizard,_ he exclaimed sharply. _This must be the instructor from Hogwarts. Be cautious._

Downstairs, Harry heard Uncle Vernon's ponderous footfalls and then the sound of the door swinging open, and he ran downstairs to have a look at this wizard, the first he had ever encountered besides Namshiel.

A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes stood there. She had a very stern face and Harry's first thought was that this was not someone to cross. She looked down over her glasses at him, and he gulped.

"Mr. Harry Potter?" she asked in a no-nonsense tone.

"That's me," Harry replied at Namshiel's urging. "Who are you?"

"Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, Transfiguration Professor, and Head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts. Perhaps we should go sit down while we talk?"

"Humph," rumbled Uncle Vernon, and reluctantly led Professor McGonagall to the Dursley's sitting room. He immediately left after doing so, although Harry could still spot him eavesdropping around the corner.

"As I'm sure you've no doubt gleaned from your admissions letter," she began, cutting to the chase, "you are a wizard, Mr. Potter. Do you believe this, or do you not? Would a demonstration perhaps convince you?"

"I believe it and don't really need a demonstration, thanks. The Dursleys sort of confirmed it when my letter arrived."

"Hmm," hummed Professor McGonagall. "On a more personal note, how have the Dursleys been treating you, Harry?"

Harry wanted so very badly to answer that they had mistreated him, had locked him in a horrid closet for extended periods of time, withheld food and water, and had subjected him to constant verbal abuse.

Unfortunately, that was _not_ what Namshiel wanted him to say, and his arguments were very convincing. Harry didn't want to displease the closest thing he had to a father, either.

 _That will prompt an investigation into your upbringing, will it not? And we can't have that. What if they learn of us, of our bond? They would take me from you, perhaps even punish you for bearing my Coin. Even if there was no investigation, is it not possible that your uncle might reveal it out of spite? No, better not to disturb the waters._

One of Uncle Vernon's piggy eyes was visible, peeking out from behind the doorframe and it had widened at this question and darted to Harry. Harry winked at his uncle, and then looked over at Professor McGonagall.

"They've treated me well enough, professor. Not exactly like their own child (not entirely a bad thing), but as well as might be expected."

The questing eye withdrew beyond the doorframe at that answer. Professor McGonagall looked a little surprised at his response, but he couldn't quite fathom why. Had she known about his mistreatment at the hands of the Dursleys? If so, why hadn't she done something about it?

"I'm very glad of that, Harry. You see, several wizards, myself included, were responsible for placing you with them after the death of your parents. The appropriateness of that choice has been hotly debated several times. It's good to see that the proper decision was made."

 _So, they did know. And yet they did nothing. Still, patience is advisable. Revenge is like a fine wine: it is best when properly aged. Restrain yourself; you have might have been able to bully the Dursleys, but an experienced wand-wizard is another thing altogether._

Harry heard Namshiel's advice, but his mind was on a different track of thought entirely. He asked his question hesitantly, as might have been expected of any small child.

"Professor," he started, "if you helped to place me here, then you knew my parents."

"I did," McGonagall affirmed, closing her eyes.

"How did they die? Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia said they died in a car crash. Is that what really happened?"

McGonagall gave a heavy sigh, and it was clear that she had been both anticipating this question and avoiding it.

"Mr. Potter, I do not believe that I am the right person to tell you this, but someone must, and since Headmaster Dumbledore is otherwise indisposed, I suppose it fall to me. I shall tell you as much as I am able, insofar as it is appropriate to your age. Please, bear in mind that as you are the only surviving witness to this event, much of it is based upon speculation and circumstantial evidence."

"It begins," she recalled, eyes going misty, "I suppose, with a man gone mad in his lust for power. Wizards are people, Mr. Potter, and they are just as susceptible to the depths of depravity as any Muggle. Around the time of your birth, one had fallen just about as far as a man can. He delved into the depths of dark magic, and from those meddlings was born the most dangerous Dark Lord the world has ever seen. His malice was such that his name is still not spoken to this day. It was . . ." she trailed off, and then produced a wand from her sleeves and flicked it gently.

Fiery letters began to appear and rearrange themselves in midair, eventually forming a title.

They read, 'Lord Voldemort.'

For some odd reason, this seemed to amuse Namshiel greatly, as Harry could feel the mirth emanating from the back of his mind, though Namshiel made not a peep.

"In any event," Professor McGonagall continued, stowing her wand back up her sleeve, "this wizard, about twenty years ago now, began recruiting a legion of followers. Many joined, whether from a lust for power, fear, or magical manipulation. The times were turbulent and dark, full of mistrust and betrayal. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was slowly taking over control of magical Britain."

"There were those few who resisted, of course, and they had a bad habit of turning up dead. Perhaps the only refuge from the storm was Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore was and is a mighty wizard, and perhaps the only one the Dark Lord was afraid of. At any rate, he did not think it worth the risk to invade the school."

"Now, your mother and father were both outstanding wizards. I should know, having taught them both! You father was Head Boy, and your mother Head Girl. Now, mayhap He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named thought he could persuade them to stand aside, if not join the ranks of his followers. All that is certain is that he came to your parent's residence at Godric Hollow on Hallowe'en ten years ago. There, that night, he killed your mother and father."

"But where you enter this story Harry," she told him, "is when he tried to kill you, too, for reasons unknown. But he was unable to do it. The result was that scar on your forehead. Such a wound occurs from contact with a powerful, evil magical curse. With that curse, he murdered you mother and father. But he was unable to kill you with it."

Something very painful was going on in Harry's mind. As McGonagall spoke, he saw the red field and green sky before his waking eyes and he remembered something else, for the first time in his life: a high, cold, cruel laugh.

"From that same night he tried to kill you, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has not been heard from. Since he was so close to achieving ultimate victory, it is logical to assume that something happened to him that night. Some claim that he died that night, while others of a more paranoid bent suggest that he has simply been biding his time to invade once more in a show of lightning force. The more erudite among us, however, believe him to still be extant, but weakened to the point of helplessness. Too weak to carry on. In any case, Mr. Potter, that night, something about you defeated the most powerful Dark Lord in known history."

"That is why," she finished, trying to sound slightly more cheerful, "you are famous in our world- a legend. There are books written about you, Harry - every child in our world knows your name!"

Harry did not hear that – he dwelt only upon the fact that there still existed a certain man.

A man, who had tried to kill him as a child. Who had killed his parents. Who was more or less responsible for his life with the Dursley, for every ounce of petty unpleasantness he had experienced. This was the same man who was the reason why he was forced in the closet instead of given a parent's love, and was the cause of his recurring nightmares.

"Revenge," Namshiel observed, his voice deepening and roughening as he appeared by Harry's side. "Oh, how you lust after it, my child. What will you not do, for Hate's sake? I can grant you the same power as he wields, greater even. It is power that you may sorely need to challenge Voldemort, if he still lives, but all knowledge has its price."

 _Anything!"_ Harry thought in a fit of passion. _I would do anything to-to_ kill _him for killing my parents and doing this to me! Only a few months ago, I might not have done anything? But now, you've given me the greatest gift ever. I'll use it to bring Voldemort to justice, to make him regret hurting my parents!_

"And so, shall it be. We will chase him 'round the realms of Faerie, 'round the Outer Gates, and 'round perdition's flames before we give him up, you and I. And in the end," he concluded, eyes glowing sickly green, "he shall fall to our combined might."

Harry nodded. _How soon?_ he demanded, already thinking of what he might do.

Namshiel let loose a rolling laugh. "It depends, I suppose, on just how much you want justice. A man of weak resolve might take the least of what I have to offer, and try to wreak a bloody vengeance against him at once. You might prevail, or you might fall. But there is no victory in such things, and I can tell that you are a stronger, worthier man. Physical pain is not enough. If you will trust me, I can show you the path to take, in time."

"Mr. Potter?" asked Professor McGonagall, interrupting the silent conversation, concern evident in her voice. "Are you quite alright? You don't appear to be taking this very well."

"You just told me that my parents were murdered, ma'am," Harry sniffled, looking at her with wet, red eyes. He was having trouble keeping the murderous rage out of his voice but he managed, with Namshiel's assistance. His mentor could not, however, help him hide his sorrow. "I don't think anyone would take that very well."

"I suppose not," McGonagall sighed, bowing her head. She was silent for a long moment before she raised it.

"Do you have any further questions about your parents?"

"I think it's best," Harry whispered, feeling sick to his stomach, "if I asked them some other time."

"I understand, Mr. Potter."

There was a long silence between them then, which Professor McGonagall broke before it became too awkward.

"You still plan to attend Hogwarts, I assume?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed, fidgeting in his seat. "From what you said, that's where my parents went. I'd like to go there too."

He did not, of course, add that Namshiel insisted he go there.

"If that's the case, you will need school supplies," observed McGonagall, rising. "The best place to find them - the only place, really - is Diagon Alley, in central London. I can either give your uncle directions, or take you there myself. I have business there to-day."

"I'm sure that Uncle Vernon would be more than happy if you took me," - Harry could see Uncle Vernon nodding frantically from the door behind Professor McGonagall - "assuming that it's not too much of an imposition. But how shall I pay for my supplies? How much money ought I bring?"

"Muggle money isn't much good in the wizarding world, I'm afraid. Or, well, it _is_ , but it can be something of a hassle and the exchange rates are, quite frankly, horrendous. No, our first stop is Gringotts, the wizard bank. From what I understand, your parents left you a not inconsiderable inheritance."

* * *

After Harry had gotten about, and Uncle Vernon had almost shoved them out the door, Professor McGonagall had flicked her wand and turned her robes into a sharp pantsuit. After doing that, she grabbed Harry by the arm. The next thing he knew everything went black; he was pressed very hard from all directions; he could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his ear-drums were being pushed deeper into his skull.

The next thing he knew, they were standing outside of Little Whinging's train station. While he spent some private time vomiting in the privy, McGonagall booked seats for two to London, and they boarded almost immediately. Harry noticed that for a person whom Uncle Vernon dubbed a 'freak,' she seemed as normal as anyone else on the station.

Well, she did pull an entire newspaper from her small handbag when they sat down, but that could easily be explained away. She read her paper and Harry watched the landscape fly by outside and listened to Namshiel's whispers, which he found most educational. He was explaining much of Diagon Alley before they arrived, and even showed him several miraculously lifelike images. He also explained the miraculous teleportation Harry had just undergone, though he seemed to regard it less as teleportation than what he called 'pathfinding.'

"The Ministry of Magic," Professor McGonagall complained, turning the page and interrupting Namshiel. "I swear that they've not a brain between them."

"There's a Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked, before he could stop himself.

"But of course," Professor McGonagall answered, folding the newspaper up. "I daresay that Professor Dumbledore would have been Minister, had he not raised some strenuous objections. He loves Hogwarts too much to forsake his position there. In any case, one Mr. Cornelius Fudge got the job. His competence is the subject of much debate in the political community and the wizarding world at large."

"But what does a Ministry of Magic do?" Harry questioned, his brain racing. Namshiel had been rather vague on the particulars of magical governments, for some reason.

"Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that wizardry is still extant, Mr. Potter."

"Why?"

"Why? Mr. Potter, if Muggles knew that wizards existed, they would never cease to bother us. They would want magical solutions to everyday problems, cures for various diseases such as cancer, and Merlin know what else. It is best that the worlds stay separate."

 _She lies,_ Namshiel warned, obviously not happy at having been interrupted. _Or perhaps she is gullible, or naïve. That is only part of the reason for a very small part of the Ministry's duties._

 _What do you mean?_ Harry thought back. Professor McGonagall had struck him as a particularly intelligent, if brutally honest, witch. If Harry had understood what Namshiel was saying correctly, those words clashed bitterly with that image.

 _The Ministry of Magic, so-called, is little more than the equivalent of a town council_ , Namshiel snorted disparagingly. _They too have their masters, though only a handful are aware of it. And implying that they only avoid Muggles because they will bother them? Absurd!_

 _What else would Muggles do? They couldn't all be like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Besides, aren't wizards more powerful than Muggles?_

Namshiel was silent for a long moment, and Harry became uncomfortable. He sensed that he'd made a grave misstep, but he was not quite sure how. When Namshiel replied, Harry's suspicions were confirmed by the displeasure lacing Namshiel's tone.

 _It is precisely that sort of attitude that can lead to your demise, Mr. Potter. Yes, wizards are more personally powerful than Muggles, but the appearance of overwhelming power is one of the only things guaranteed to make human beings unify out of sheer fear for their survival. Have you never heard of the Spanish Inquisition? Of the witch-hunts that went on for years on the Continent? Of Salem, Massachusetts? Mortals or Muggles, whatever you care to term them, are like Africanized honey bees. Extremely dangerous when angered, they used their vast numbers to take down far more dangerous prey, and that was hundreds of years ago. Now, their ferromancy makes them the most powerful race on the planet, able to wreak destruction on a scale unmatched save by gods. Do not underestimate them . . . they destroyed the mighty Black Court of Vampires, for all intents and purposes. All beings have their weaknesses, and overwhelming odds is a nigh-universal one. Do they pose a threat by themselves? Arguably, but that is not where the greatest danger lies - if mortals went to war, they would not be alone._

 _Vampires?_ Harry thought, stunned. _Vampires are real? And there are Courts of them? Is that like the Royal Court? Do they really drink blood? Are they –_

Namshiel cut him off with the mental equivalent of a sigh. _All in good time, child. You shall learn all things from me, but some are not yet pertinent to you._

 _So, are the Ministry of Magic's masters also something not yet pertinent to me?_

 _Your logic is sound, my child_ , Namshiel chortled, obviously amused. _Tell me, what do you remember of my teachings concerning the differences in the magics?_

 _True magic is strong, wand-magic is weak_ , Harry obediently replied.

 _That is hardly a fair representation of my words_ , Namshiel chastised him, but there was little heat behind the words. _Crude though it may be, it is, for the most part, correct. For now, satisfy yourself with this: even as magic varies, so too does its governance._

"You are very quiet for a young man of your age, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall observed, not unhappily. "Such a quality will serve you well at Hogwarts, when you arrive there. Anyways, how are you coping with the wizarding world?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Professor. Even if I didn't know about it before you came," Harry lied, "I do now, and that's what is important. I'm glad to be a part of the same world as my parents."

"And if you are anything like your parents, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said, looking at him with something approaching warmth. "you will have a very bright future before you. Ah, and here is our stop. To the Leaky Cauldron, then."

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If McGonagall hadn't pointed it out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and the Professor could see it. Before he could mention this, she had steered him inside.

She had him in and out of that pub so fast that Harry would have almost sworn that he could feel his head spinning. In short order, they were standing in a rather dirty courtyard behind the pub, choked with weeds and trash. McGonagall ignored these and stepped over to the far wall. She tapped the wall three times with the point of her wand.

The brick she had touched quivered - it wriggled - in the middle, a small hole appeared - it grew wider and wider - a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for a bus, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

"Welcome, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall announced, "to Diagon Alley."

Having already been shown the Alley by Namshiel, Harry was not as awed as he might have been, but he still thought it very impressive. There was a great deal of bustling and haggling going on in the streets, and Namshiel disparagingly remarked that it reminded him of a bazaar in the Middle East.

"Keep up, Mr. Potter!" Professor McGonagall called over her shoulder, and Harry started. He hadn't even noticed that she had gone on ahead, but he ran after her.

Professor McGonagall did not appear to have much difficulty moving through the crowd. She seemed to predict its currents and eddies remarkably well, with the result that she was able to quickly lead Harry to a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops.

"Gringotts," said Harry, without thinking. McGonagall looked at him oddly, but seemed to let it pass.

Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was a little being about a head shorter than Harry. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside.

"A lesser goblin," Namshiel intoned as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. "These are weaklings that Herne, King of the Goblins, cast out. Now they are led by a Puck. They are dangerous only to the weak or vulnerable. Their skills in smithing are not insignificant, though their security is, at best, mediocre. They dislike humans. That bow was mocking."

Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with a poem engraved upon them in golden letters. After what Harry had just learned from Namshiel, he thought it to be in rather poor taste.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. McGonagall and Harry made for the counter.

"Mr. Potter wishes to make a withdrawal from his family vault," Professor McGonagall informed the goblin teller briskly. "Say, about two-hundred-fifty Galleons."

Namshiel murmured into his ear about the conversion ratios of wizard money, both in their own currency and that of Muggles, but Harry didn't pay very good attention. He was far too distracted by the grotesque features of the goblins.

"You have his key?"

Professor McGonagall immediately produced a tiny golden key, which the goblin snatched and looked at closely.

"That seems to be in order. I'll have Griphook take you down to both vaults."

"That won't be necessary. We're in a bit of a rush. You can make a withdrawal and charge it to the account later. Is that alright with you, Harry?"

"Sure," Harry agreed after Namshiel told him that it was acceptable, and Griphook (another, smaller goblin) was off.

Essentially, Namshiel informed him, Griphook would bring him some money from an above-ground vault instead of taking the time to go all the way down to the vault itself. That amount would then be subtracted from his vault in the future.

"How much money is in my vault?" Harry asked of the goblin teller, who looked askance at him, and then gestured at Professor McGonagall.

"It would be a breach of confidentiality to tell you with her here, boy."

Professor McGonagall pointedly took several steps away and the goblin beckoned Harry closer, hopping down off of its stool and pulling a ledger off of a bookshelf behind it.

"No specifics are available without further charge, but it is listed as significantly below the hundred-thousand Galleon mark."

"Um," Harry quavered, sure that dollar signs had replaced his eyes. "Wow. That's a, uh, a rather lot."

"Not really," the teller responded dismissively, tossing Harry his vault key. "Now leave me be, boy, and go wait somewhere else for Griphook. Our business is concluded."

Harry went with Professor McGonagall and sat on a wooden bench in the corner.

"The teller was rather impolite," he told her.

"For a goblin, he was actually rather amicable," Professor McGonagall informed him. "They tend to be rather bitter creatures."

 _That's because they resent their exile,_ Namshiel told him. _It's been almost nine hundred years and yet they are still bitter. Moreover, they know no consequences will arise from insulting a wand-wizard._

 _Why were they exiled?_ Harry wondered. _Apart from their rudeness and ugliness, I mean,_ he added, a little vindictively. Jeeves' etiquette lessons caused him to take a rather dim view of the impolite.

 _Politics_ , Namshiel summarized, and left it at that.

Griphook returned in a few minutes, bearing a large leather sack, which he handed to Harry, and then turned away.

"Oi!" Harry called after him, "Griphook! Thanks!"

"Sod off, human," Griphook returned, throwing a rude gesture over his shoulder, to Harry's consternation.

"See what I mean?" asked Professor McGonagall, gathering up her robes (recently transfigured from the pantsuit.) "Come along, Harry. We've yet to get started on the meat of the journey."

A few moments later Harry stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Harry didn't know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money - more money than even Dudley had ever had.

 _Did I not tell you that you would reap many benefits by taking up my Coin?_ Namshiel asked, his words slithering around Harry's brain and sending shivers up his spine. _This is only the beginning, my son. But there is more. So much more. So much power that could be yours; so much knowledge and control. I can teach you these things, give you these things. So long as you hold my Coin, all your dreams shall come to pass._

Harry nodded numbly, but then he was seized by an annoyed Minerva McGonagall (he had been ignoring her instructions for several seconds), and was dragged over to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. She reminded Harry of a Pekingese that Aunt Marge had once taken a shine to.

"Hogwarts, for this one, Minerva? Got the lot here - another young man being fitted up just now, in fact. We can have this one done in just a few minutes," she offered, gesturing towards the back of the shop, where a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes.

Professor McGonagall's grip tightened painfully on Harry's shoulder, causing him to squirm uncomfortably.

"We'll come back later, thank you, Elizabeth," she seethed, iron and distaste in her voice. "I seemed to have forgotten that we need to get Harry a wand."

With that, she hurried Harry out of the clothing store and leaving him more confused than the average American politician. He asked Namshiel why they were leaving.

"I am many things, dear child, but a mind-reader is not one of them. Or, at least not in this case. However, I daresay that dear Professor McGonagall has something of a grudge against that young man back there."

 _Why do you suppose that is?_ Harry mentally enquired.

"Unless I am wrong- and I am rarely wrong- that young man back there was a scion of the Malfoïs family. The somewhat unique hair color is often found in the Malfoy branch of the family. As to why she did not want you to encounter him . . . well, let us say that the family has often been associated with the so-called darker magic, and unjustly persecuted for that. Abraxas Malfoy was a good friend of mine, and I assure you that we got on very well together."

 _Black magic!?_ Harry thought, shocked. _Isn't that the evil magic Voldemort was using? What he tried to kill me with?_

"There is no good magic, Harry, no evil magic. All that matters is the purpose to which one applies it. Only fools think otherwise. I cannot force you to listen to reason, my child, but if you truly wish to bring this Dark Lord to justice, you must grow past these infantile delusions of right and wrong. You can only fight fire with fire, and your fire must be the more intense if you are to triumph."

Harry thought for a long time about that on the way to the wand shop. He wasn't completely convinced about that, but Namshiel's arguments made a lot of sense.

* * *

The wand shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._

 _Hardly an ancient establishment, but I suppose it will do_ , sighed Namshiel in his ear. Harry shook his head as though trying to get rid of an annoying insect.

A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that McGonagall sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. For a moment, Harry thought Namshiel was whispering to him again, but he soon realised that this voice lacked the rich, commanding tone Namshiel's had.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," returned Harry awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry struggled to hold in his distaste – he didn't like having people too near him. It made him claustrophobic, though only slightly.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Namshiel harrumphed.

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

"And that's where..."

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger.

"I sold the wand that did it," he admitted softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands . . . well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do . . ."

He shook his head and then, to Harry's relief, turned to Professor McGonagall.

"Minerva McGonagall, as I live and breathe. Nine-and-a-half inches, fir, dragon heartstring. You don't normally accompany new students to my humble shop."

"Mr. Potter is a special case, as I'm sure you understand."

"Hmmm," said Mr. Ollivander, giving her a piercing look. "Well, now, Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

 _Right arm._

"My right arm, I suppose," Harry repeated dutifully.

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

There was silence from Namshiel, so Harry figured he must have found something about that significant.

Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," he decided, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take it and give it a wave."

Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try-"

Harry tried - but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander. Harry was becoming rather vexed at his unseemly habit of snatching things. People in the wizarding world liked snatching things, he realised. First the goblin, and now Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no -here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and green sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls and filling the air with the smell of rotten eggs.

Mr. Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good, though that was hardly a typical response for a wand. Well, well, well . . . how curious . . . how very curious . . ."

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious . . . curious . . ."

"Pardon me," said Harry, "but what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry's mouth grew dry, and the scent of rotten eggs grew the tiniest bit more pronounced.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember . . . I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter . . . After all, He- Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great."

Harry shivered, chills running up his spine and whispers sounding in his ears, but he paid seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop, Professor McGonagall going first, and exiting rather hurriedly.

As Harry was about to pass the threshold, he turned back to look at Ollivander one last time.

"But great, Mr. Ollivander?"

The old wandmaker nodded slowly, lidded eyes never leaving Harry's.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. Very great indeed."


	6. Chapter 5: The Third Law

Chapter V: The Third Law

Namshiel thought it was very silly, and therefore Harry thought it very silly, that there should be a Platform called Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. It really served no purpose beyond sounding silly and drawing attention to itself, Harry mused.

Anyways, Harry figured that it ought to have been called Platform Nine-and-One-Half, seeing as the entrance was exactly one-half of the way between platforms nine and ten, not three-quarters of the way. At the moment, however, he was more concerned about arguing with Namshiel concerning the potential results of running into a brick wall.

"Must I really run into a brick wall?" asked Harry, not liking the idea one bit. "It seems a very good way to render myself as dumb as Dudley."

"The wall is a Path," Namshiel declared, tiring of the argument, which had been raging for several minutes. "I assure you, all you have to do is walk straight at the barrier in good faith. You must, however, maintain a fast enough pace to break through the endoplasmic shell. Now, hurry. Mr. Jeeves will be right behind you."

Harry turned around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid and very real. He was glad that he wasn't carrying luggage, at least. Mr. Jeeves had been kind enough to do that, carrying a pair of trunks in one white-gloved hand as though they weighed nothing, and a ventilated box in the other.

He started to walk toward it, rude people jostling him on their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash right into that barrier and then he'd be in trouble, he was sure, but Namshiel scolded him and he broke into a light jog. As the barrier came nearer and nearer, he feared he wouldn't be able to stop, and he closed his eyes, ready for the crash that never came.

When he opened his eyes, he was looking at a scarlet steam engine that was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said _Hogwarts Express, eleven o'clock_. Harry looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_ on it. He had done it.

 _Next time,_ Namshiel's words came to him, _perhaps you won't be so quick to doubt me, eh?_

Harry hung his head, embarrassed. Once again, Namshiel had proven right about something that Harry had been afraid of. Really, he scolded himself, he ought to have learnt that Namshiel knew better by now.

The engine began to belch white smoke as the train warmed up for the long journey to Scotland, where Namshiel informed him Hogwarts was located, and Harry quickly hurried towards it. He did not want to be left behind.

Harry made his way through the press, and finally cleared the press of hot bodies. He wrinkled his nose. No matter whether they were Muggle or magical, it would seem that large crowds of people inevitably smelled bad. Perhaps they didn't use magic to deal with such trivial things, he hypothesized. After all, Namshiel had stressed the judicious use of true magic when he began his training.

Still turning the matter over in his head, Harry boarded and pressed on through the train until he found an empty compartment near the end of the train. Jeeves, having followed closely, stepped up and lightly stowed his luggage away in a corner of the compartment. Harry stood in the doorway, silently observing the compartment

The train was nice, he supposed, but the seats seemed rather worn. Harry dusted off the seat with one hand and then sat down, very properly.

There was a sudden clatter outside the door and a young, red-headed boy came in, dragging a battered trunk. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

"Can I help you with that, sir?" Jeeves asked, grabbing the trunk with one white gloved hand and stowing it opposite of Harry's luggage.

"Oh – um, thanks," the redhead stuttered, obviously nervous. "Thanks very much. Erm, is anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full."

 _I suppose you might as well_ , Namshiel said. _I don't recognize this one, which means his family name carries little weight, but he could prove to be a useful . . . friend._

"No," Harry admitted, after a brief pause, withdrawing his hands into the downy sleeves of his shirt. "Please, sit."

"I'll take my leave then, sir," Jeeves said, nodding at Harry. "You remember how to contact me?"

Harry replied in the affirmative.

"Excellent. Good-day to you both," the manservant bade before turning sharply and exiting the compartment. Jeeves closed the door softly on the way out, leaving Harry alone with this stranger.

And awkward silence and staring contest ensued, and the other boy looked away first.

"Fine weather we're having," Harry desperately tried, picking at the threads of his cuffs.

"Very nice," the boy amiably agreed.

"Pleasantly cool, for this time of year."

"Quite true," came the response.

"I do enjoy this sort of weather," Harry said, desperately trying to keep the faltering conversation going. He fancied he could hear its death rattle.

"I do too," the other boy revealed, smiling benignly at Harry.

At that point, Harry abandoned any further attempts at polite and intelligent conversation, and the awkward silence returned in all of its awful glory. Harry unintentionally broke it when he moved to readjust his glasses and swept his hair back in the process, revealing his scar. The other boy's eyes widened at the sight.

"Blimey," he whispered reverently, "you're Harry Potter!"

"At your service," Harry returned uncomfortably. McGonagall had said he was famous amongst wizards, but he hadn't thought they would be able to recognize him almost immediately. "And who, might I ask, are you?"

"Oh," the boy said, blushing deeply, "I'm Ron. Ron, erm, Weasley."

Harry, conditioned to expect a more formal response, wait for a surprised heartbeat before replying.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ron. Tell me," he asked, eschewing the dictates of proper conversation, "what can I expect at Hogwarts? I grew up with Muggles, see, and I'm afraid I don't know as much about it as I should."

"I heard you went to live with Muggles," Ron said, avoiding the question and rubbing at a black mark on his nose. "What are they like?"

"Depends. My aunt and uncle and cousin are alright, I suppose. Wish I'd had three wizard brothers."

"Five," Ron revealed. For some reason, he was looking gloomy. "I'm the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left -Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George, the twins, mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."

Ron reached inside his threadbare jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was asleep. It was missing a toe on one foot.

"His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff - I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

Ron's ears went pink. He seemed to think he'd said too much, because he went back to staring out of the window.

Harry didn't think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford an owl. After all, he'd never had any money in his life until a month ago. Ron wasn't much different from him, he supposed, save for a vast gap in power and manners. Perhaps he would make a good friend? Harry hadn't ever had a friend before, though, so he wasn't exactly sure how on ought to go about befriending people.

Jeeves' instructions in etiquette hadn't covered this.

 _If he is indeed poor_ , Namshiel mused, _that should make him gravitate towards you all the faster, should you choose to befriend him._

"What?" Harry asked, forgetting to speak silently. Ron shot him an odd look, but Harry excused himself as 'just having thought of something.'

 _You may have begun to grasp the most rudimentary principles of magic, my son, but you still need to learn to play the game without my assistance_ , Namshiel purred, and then went silent.

"So, Ron, you were telling me what Hogwarts was like?"

They had been talking companionably for some time when there was a knock on the door of their compartment that halted their conversation, and a round-faced boy Harry dimly remembered passing on Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters came in. He looked tearful.

"Sorry," he sniveled, grubbing at his nose, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

When they shook their heads, he wailed, "I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"

"He'll turn up," Harry guessed. "There's not really anywhere for him to go, after all."

"Yes," said the boy miserably. "Well, if you see him . . ." He left.

"Don't know why he's so bothered," complained Ron, rubbing at his nose once more. "If I'd brought a toad I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk."

The aforementioned rat was still snoozing on Ron's lap. When his name was mentioned, he made a loud squeak and raised his head, but then turned over and went back to sleep.

"Hmm," Harry hummed indifferently. "Does he eat much?"

Ron nodded. "He'll eat whatever he's given, and I think he steals food from the larder. I've never caught him, mind, but it would explain why he's so fat."

"Actually, that reminds me of something," Harry interrupted, and began rooting about in his trunks while Ron looked on curiously.

After a little while, he produced a small cardboard box, from which he extracted a large cricket.

"Eucch," Ron gagged. "What's that for?"

"The cricket is for Beelzebub," Harry said distractedly, try to force the cricket through one of the holes in his ventilated box. It looked as though someone was trying to shove a morbidly obese person into a corset. "He eats them, but he prefers flies if he can get them."

"Who is Beelzebub?" asked Ron.

"He's my . . . toad, I guess. He doesn't really do anything useful, most of the time. Actually, he can be a downright nuisance."

"Better than Scabbers. He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference," said Ron in disgust. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look . . ."

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end – it had been in the family for some time, Harry guessed.

Ron had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth.

Harry did not like her, though he couldn't have given a good reason why. She reminded him eerily of what a young Aunt Petunia might have been like.

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," said Ron, but the girl wasn't listening - she was looking at the wand in his hand.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

She sat down, uninvited, and Ron looked taken aback. Harry thought that quite rude.

"Er - all right."

He cleared his throat.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."

He waved his wand, but nothing happened for a long moment. Scabbers stayed fat and gray and fast asleep.

"Are you sure that's a real spell? Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried-" the girl began, before being cut off by a small explosion from Ron's lap. It was followed by a sharp squeak.

"Scabbers!" Ron gasped, holding his pet rodent upside down by its tail. "Are you alright!?"

Scabbers did not answer, but it soon became apparent that he was most emphatically _not_ alright (though his current position probably wasn't making matters any better). Neither was he yellow. He was, however, paralyzed from the neck down, or at least that was the general consensus after several minutes of observation.

 _It seems,_ Namshiel observed, _that he has been hiding his abilities. No doubt the rat was merely a demonstration, a warning to us of how powerful he is – and if that was a warning, he must be rather proficient at wand-magic. I have no doubt the spell worked exactly as intended. Be cautious._

"Bloody hell," Ron swore, to the evident shock of the bushy haired witch. "I'm going to be in _loads_ of trouble for this. He was Percy's old rat! Whatever am I going to do?"

"You could take him to the infirmary once we reach Hogwarts," the girl offered. "They probably don't do much animal husbandry, but I'm sure that they could dispel a simple spell like that one."

"Oh," said Ron, eyes lighting up in what was no doubt intended to be another display of inner power (Harry really thought he was overplaying the spell as a mistake). "That's a great idea! Yeah, they'll fix it. Guess I should put him away in the meantime, though . . ."

"Maybe your parents will buy you a new one?" Harry suggested, carefully scooting as far away from Ron as he could. The other boy had just performed the most damaging act of wand-magic Harry had ever seen and he didn't fancy being on the receiving end of another spell. Ron seemed very dangerous all of the sudden.

Ron shook his head. "Nah. Right now - "

"Well," the girl said loudly, interrupting Ron, "I've done a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. No explosions, nothing. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard - I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough - I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

She said all this very fast – then again, everything she said seemed to be said very fast. It wasn't proper, and did not improve Harry's initial impression of her. It turned out that Namshiel didn't much like her, either.

 _Intelligent, arrogant, flawed; and above all, a Muggleborn. She could be a great asset, Harry, but you would have to be sure to minimize contact with her, given the backwards notions about muggleborns in England._

Well, if Harry had anything to say about it, the contact would be nonexistent. He didn't like bossy people. Plus, she was a _girl_.

After the inevitable dialogue following the revelation of his identity, Harry dislike of Hermione deepened, if that were possible. She was, he thought, rather snooty.

"Do either of you know what house you'll be in?" she asked. "I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad . . . Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."

And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," Ron groaned, a sentiment with which Harry heartily agreed. Ron threw his wand back into his trunk. "Stupid spell - George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud. Hopefully it didn't hurt Scabbers too bad, or Mum will be cross."

Ron really was a good actor, Harry had to give him that. Harry had taken him for something of a fool once before, but now that Namshiel had pointed out what was really going on, he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. No doubt Ron was planning more villainous acts of destruction even as he feigned grief at the fate of his rat. But that was neither here nor there.

"What house are your brothers in?" asked Harry, genuinely curious.

"Gryffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. "Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

 _Slytherin would actually be my house of choice for you, Harry, if your parents had not been Gryffindors._ _You will be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin could help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that. But, we shall see what we shall see._

There was yet _another_ rap on the door, and this time it opened to reveal three boys. Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop, the one that Professor McGonagall had so wanted him to avoid.

 _Ware,_ Namshiel hissed warningly. _This child is a viper, and he has fangs. The Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy is not to be trifled with. At all costs, you must secure him as an ally. Without alienating anyone else, if possible_. _Say something along the lines of_ . . .

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Harry, standing up for introductions, as was proper. He was looking at the other boys. Both of them were thickset and looked extremely mean – rather like Dudley might have looked, had he not been to fat. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they looked like bodyguards. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy. Your reputation precedes you."

"Likewise," Malfoy returned. Unlike some people, he had obviously been trained in proper etiquette, though the tone in which he spoke made it abundantly clear he didn't care one whit about politeness.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said Malfoy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking.

Ron muttered something incomprehensible. Malfoy narrowed his eyes at him.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Weasley," he threatened Ron. "Doesn't your father still work at the Ministry?"

Ron turned red, but he shut up and turned his attention to the paralyzed Scabbers. This exchange only served to confirm Harry's sneaking suspicion that Malfoy was a vain, greedy, cruel boy. Harry did not like him either. Truly, he realized, there seemed to be something of a dearth of likeable people at Hogwarts.

It also showed Harry that Ron had some small amount of self-control, and knew when to stay quiet. Yes, he would do quite nicely as a friend.

Ron's lack of response evidently pleased Malfoy, as he turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

 _I don't want to be his friend_ , Harry told Namshiel. _I don't even want to be near him. He seems an insufferable bore, and none too intelligent._

 _Sacrifices must be made,_ Namshiel noted dryly. _Verily I say unto you, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Keep Ron and Malfoy very close, in either case._

That settled the matter.

"I'm sure that you can," Harry flattered, nearly gagging on his honeyed words. "Is there any chance that we might discuss it further once we reach the school? We are almost there, and I must change into my robes."

"Of course," Malfoy allowed, a smile curving his pale face. "I'll see you then, shall I, Mr. Potter? Or is Harry alright?"

"Harry is fine."

"Then you must call me Draco. Be seeing you around, Weasel."

With that last parting shot at Ron, he and his cohort were off.

"Why were you so nice to him?" Ron demanded as Harry sat down, squirming uncomfortably against the worn seat. "He's a git, and his family is as dark as they come!"

"I was only being polite, Ron. Yes, he is an annoying prat, and no, I don't like him either. Still, we can't lower ourselves to his level, after all," Harry defended, settling back into the plush seat. Honestly, he thought Ron a bit of a hypocrite. Malfoy hadn't been the one who paralyzed his own rat to prove a point.

 _After all,_ Namshiel murmured, _it just isn't good business_. _You have done well._

"Potter, Harry!"

* * *

As Harry stepped forward, shoes clacking against the flagstone floor, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

"Potter, did she say?"

" _The_ Harry Potter?"

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. He was anxious for a brief moment, but then Namshiel's voice was there reassuring him, comforting him.

Harry hadn't known what to expect at from the Sorting at first, but Ron had mentioned something about a 'painful test,' and that had worried him. Namshiel had dismissed Ron's idea as codswallop, however, and assured Harry that the Sorting would be 'taken care of.'

Of course, Harry had felt rather differently (and rather let down) when he found out that he was going to be sorted by a talking hat. A raggedy, old, and rather dirty talking hat. It did not smell very nice, either.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. He supposed it to be the Hat. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, - oh, my goodness, yes – but what is this? A lust for revenge? A hunger for twisted justice? It reminds me of a boy I sorted almost forty-five years ago. How very alarming, though it seems tempered by an innate good nature . . ."

The Hat was quiet for a moment after that, and Harry fancied he could almost feel tiny fingers gently brushing along the edges of his thoughts. When the fingers dug a tiny bit deeper, however, they stopped and suddenly recoiled.

"Flame!" gasped the Hat, stiffening on Harry's head and mussing his hair. "Thorns, flame, brimstone! Silly child! What have you-"

"That will be quite enough of that," Namshiel broke in suddenly, voice laced with displeasure, cutting the Hat off. "I think I shall take it from here. Harry, please grab the brim of the Hat."

Harry did so, though he was not quite sure why it was necessary. Almost immediately thereafter, however the Hat began to keen and shrill and quiver, though only Harry could hear its cries. He found them rather disturbing, honestly.

"Hmm," Namshiel mocked. "Hardly difficult. Rather easy, in fact. Plenty of memories, I see. Not a bad mind either, for a mortal plaything."

"What are you doing?" Harry demanded uncomfortably, clenching the velvety fabric of the Hat very tightly. "Are you hurting him?"

"Of course not," Namshiel soothed, as the Hat's struggles died down. "Any discomfort he may be feeling is illusory. I'm merely making sure that the Hat makes a proper decision concerning your placement. By-the-by, your parents really were in Gryffindor. Does it sound like the proper house to you?"

"Yes," Harry whispered excitedly, his heart thumping in his chest. "It sounds just right."

"Well then, that's that. But we can hardly have him learning out about me, so I'm afraid he's just going to have to forget this conversation, save for the fact that you were a model Gryffindor . . ."

The Hat gave a quiet, low gasp after that statement, and then it went very still.

"Eh, looks like the perfect house for you, Harry Potter, will be Gryffindor!" the Hat concluded blearily after a few moments, bellowing the last word to the entire Hall.

The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers, while the other Houses and the High Table clapped politely but enthusiastically. Harry took off the hat and walked confidently toward the Gryffindor table. He looked neither left nor right and held his head high, blood singing with excitement and an odd sense of triumph. Namshiel had said that this was the House for him, and so it would be. It was the beginning, Namshiel assured him, of a great adventure.

Namshiel hissed a suggestion and he took it, sitting at one of the corners of the table and thus preventing anyone from sitting next to him on that side. He absently rubbed one hand against the smooth mahogany of the tables as he waited for the Sorting to end.

Fortunately, only a few people were sorted after him. Among them was Ron, whom Harry invited to sit next to him, thus effectively preventing strangers from sitting next to him and bothering him – and given the events on the train, he pitied anyone who tried to annoy his new ally. At any rate, it was far better than sitting next to some random bloke. He supposed he could forgive Ron for ruthlessly paralyzing his own rat, provided he did such a good job of scaring off strangers in the future.

After the Sorting, the old wizard who occupied the central seat at the High Table got to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.

"Welcome," he boomed. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Faith! Hope! Love!"

Harry was nearly deafened by Namshiel's reaction to those words. A hiss like that of a boiling teakettle sounded in his head and echoed all about, and he clapped his hands to his temples in a vain attempt to assuage the agony. Fortunately, the others were too involved in the chaos of the magical appearance of food to pay him any mind.

"Who is that?" he asked quietly, screwing his eyes shut in pain. "Why are you angry?"

Harry had to wait for the reverberations of the initial rage-laden sound to die down for a response.

"That," Namshiel clarified, his poisonous words worming their way through Harry's brain, "is Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and wizard extraordinaire. He is also perhaps the most dangerous wand-wizard you shall ever meet."

"Dangerous? How?"

"If I remember my dates correctly, he is over a hundred years old. In that time, he has armed himself with more knowledge than any living wand wizard. Save for perhaps one, though I am unsure of that . . ."

"Voldemort," Harry breathed, almost reverently. "Professor McGonagall said he was the only one Voldemort ever feared."

"So she claims," Namshiel allowed blandly, suddenly dangerously calm. "I know he is dangerous, because he killed a dangerous man, the student of a friend of mine."

"Is-is he any danger to me?" Harry whispered cautiously. That sounded like a situation he'd rather avoid. "He seems rather friendly."

"To you?" Namshiel mused, drawing out the words. "No, I would not deem him a danger to you. He might be a great ally to you, and a useful protector before you gather your full strength. But to me, yes, he is a danger. He would not, I am afraid, approve of me. You must keep me a secret, Harry; be cautious around him, but friendly."

Harry agreed, and returned his attention to the food before him. It was superb, though some of the selection was odd, and he honestly missed Jeeves' cooking. He realized with a pang that he now associated that cooking with home.

He was careful in conversation, proceeding though it with Namshiel's guidance, provoking discussion but rarely speaking. He learnt many interesting things, sure to serve him well in the near future.

* * *

When the desserts had been dealt with, Dumbledore rose to his feet once more.

"Ahem - just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."

The students were quiet, and Dumbledore nodded approvingly.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of a pair of redheaded boys, whom Harry assumed to be Ron's aforementioned twin brothers.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors."

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch."

"There is, however, one additional rule: a curfew is to be strictly enforced beginning at nine of the clock. The only exception to this is Astronomy. A teacher will guide you to and from that class."

The room was very quiet after that declaration, but Rumor, that swift goddess, soon began to flit about, filling the room with excited murmurs. She, who for every feather on her body has as many watchful eyes below as many tongues speaking, as many listening ears, saw in this a grand opportunity for strife. Towards that end, the daughter of terrible Gaia, sister to Coeus and Enceladus, even now filled the ears of students with endless gossip, singing fact and fiction alike.

"And finally, I wish all of our first years – all of our students, for that matter- a very good year, both academically and otherwise."

* * *

After the students sang a (mortifyingly embarrassing, in his opinion) song, they were dismissed. As he stood, a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead.

"Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head, but the pain had gone as quickly as it had come and he dismissed it as a mere severe headache from Namshiel's earlier ruckus or the effect of eating too much rich food too rapidly.

His Fallen, however, did not. In his throne-like chair in the mindscape's temple, Namshiel sat bolt upright, a musky smell once more in his nostrils. He listened very quietly for a moment, clutching the cool, onyx-capped arms of his throne in a white-knuckled grip.

"A mental attack, of some sort? No, that won't do at all, I'm afraid," he sneered to , lifting an aged-spotted hand. It began to glow like a falling star, wisps of steam or smoke playing about his fingers.

When the power building in that hand had reached some unknown limit, Namshiel thrust it at the sky outside and a curtain of smoldering Hellfire draped itself over the heavens, warding the mind from further mental attacks. By all rights, Harry should have been rendered nigh impervious to any psychic attack, apart from those with the experience of someone like the lovely Capiorcorpus (another dear acquaintance of his).

He was therefore startled when a weak mental attack, perhaps a magical resonance of some kind, began to make a feeble assault on Harry's mind. This time, however, it happened from the inside, creating tiny fractures in the structure of the mindscape. He raised a curious eyebrow, but when the fission began to spread, he reacted with overwhelming force. Perhaps a little bit _too_ much force, he would later admit to himself.

"You trespass on my sanctuary! This host is mine. This realm is mine. And here, I am God," Namshiel barked, clapping his hands, an even greater explosion of Hellfire erupting from the contact and expanding out over the mindscape, carrying his words with it.

"One does not trifle with God unless one is prepared to suffer the consequences, as I know all too well."


	7. Chapter 6: Butterfly Effect

Chapter VI : Butterfly Effect

Harry Potter was not entirely pleased with life at Hogwarts. He had quickly found out there was a lot more to magic than waving your wand and saying a few funny words. It was very different from Namshiel's lessons on true magic and the occasional bit of wand-lore, and it was not altogether pleasant.

The classes that did not require magic he excelled at. Herbology, Astronomy, Potions, even History of Magic – none of them were a challenge to him, who had access to centuries of memories from an eidetic and wise mentor.

History of Magic was taught by a specter, which he found interesting. Namshiel had assured him when he met his first one that he had nothing to fear from them – most couldn't interact with the physical world, and normally couldn't even be seen. Apparently, the grounds of Hogwarts were rich enough in energy, memory, and ectoplasm to allow partial materialization, if not interaction.

As a poltergeist, Peeves had proved an exception to this rule, to Harry's great dismay. He learnt quite quickly that _that_ particular entity was more than capable of physical interaction, thanks to an incident involving copious amounts of glue and water balloons.

Peeves was not as bad as Professor Snape, though. That bigoted, petty, cruel excuse for a teacher was the bane of Harry's life. Snape had tried (and failed, thanks to Namshiel) to embarrass Harry the first day of class, and he hadn't stopped there. No matter how perfect his potions were, Snape still tried to find fault with them.

He'd get his, though. Namshiel had been teaching him the most _educational_ true magic in his spare time, and while he'd never thought he would contemplate using it on another human, Snape was very close to successfully changing Harry's mind.

Harry had never once been able to successfully cast any of the more complicated spells or transfigurations as they progressed. At first, yes, everything had gone well enough. He was on par with most of his classmates, a pace that satisfied but did not please Namshiel. But as the spells became harder, Harry found himself simply unable to cast them. It was not that he cast them incorrectly, but rather that nothing happened when he did (his movements and incantations were precise and perfect, thank you very much!), as though he were a Muggle that had picked up a wand.

Hermione had, of course, been able to change a match to a needle after the first lesson in Transfiguration. It was quite clear that she was something of a prodigy; everyone said so.

Harry's envy of her magical prowess served to inflame his dislike of her into a childish jealousy and hatred. He wanted that power for himself, to make Namshiel proud of him. He knew that Namshiel was growing discontent with his progress, and eventually Namshiel expressed that discontent in no uncertain terms.

On Halloween morning, Professor Flitwick had announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly, something they had all been dying to try since they'd seen him make Neville's toad zoom around the classroom.

Professor Flitwick had divided the class into pairs to practice. Harry's partner was Seamus Finnigan (which was a relief, both because Neville had been trying to catch his eye, and Hermione was in the class). Ron, however, had drawn the short straw, and was to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to tell whether Ron or Hermione was angrier about this, as they both loathed each other.

The spell was very difficult. Harry and Seamus swished and flicked, but the feather they were supposed to be sending skyward just lay on the desktop. Seamus became so impatient that he prodded it with his wand and set fire to it - Harry had to put it out with his hat. Still, that was more magic than Harry had managed to do.

It was at that time that Namshiel had decided to take him to task for his ineptitude, and had apparently decided to manifest himself outside Harry's head.

"I am very disappointed with you, Harry," Namshiel said in that grandfatherly way of his.

Harry winced. He had learnt that the kinder Namshiel sounded, the more displeased he generally was.

 _That's not fair_! He protested _. No-one else has done it either_. _Besides, you said that wand-magic isn't very important._

"Be that as it may, Harry, you are most emphatically _not_ just 'no-one else.' You are my host, whom I selected to grant my gifts."

 _But I'm working as fast as I can! I just can't do it! I'm doing everything right, but nothing happens! How is that my fault?_

"Because you have heard, but do not listen. Where is the conviction in your spells, your will? Where is that insatiable appetite for knowledge that you so often displayed when I taught you the fundamentals of magic? I do not see it."

 _The teachers just can't explain it as well as you could. Why do they trouble me with these . . . indignities, these cantrips and hedgerow spells? They aren't interesting. I want to learn spells, spells of power!_

Namshiel didn't immediately respond to that. Harry supposed he was probably coming up with a solution, and he turned back to poking the feather.

"Perhaps you need a more advanced tutor, or access to different books. I feel that that might greatly benefit you," Namshiel eventually concluded, vanishing.

Harry sighed. That hadn't been quite the solution he had been hoping for.

Meanwhile, Ron, at the next table, wasn't having much more luck. That made Harry feel better, in a low, mean-spirited way, even though Ron was hardly that standard to which he wished to hold himself, no matter what hidden powers the boy might have possessed.

" _Wingardium Leviosa_!" Ron shouted, waving his long arms like a windmill.

Harry rather suspected Namshiel's initial assessment of Ron might not have been quite accurate. Then again, it was always possible that he was concealing his true strength behind a facade of ineptitude.

"You're saying it wrong," Harry heard Hermione snap. "It's Wing- _gar_ -dium Levi- _o_ -sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

"You do it, then, if you're so clever," Ron snarled.

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked her wand, and said, " _Wingardium Leviosa_!"

Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet above their heads.

"Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. "Everyone see here, Miss Granger's done it!"

Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class, though not near as bad a one as Harry was in. "It's no wonder no one can stand her," he said to Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded corridor, "she's a nightmare, honestly."

Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her face - and was startled to see that she was in tears.

Harry chose not to immediately respond, suspecting that Hermione was still within earshot, and wanting to avoid confrontation with a far more skilled wand-wizard. His decision was validated when the girl hurried past them. Harry heard a faint weeping, which faded as she drew further away.

He lowered his voice and tuned to Ron. "I think she heard you, not that it particularly matters.

"So?" said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "She must've noticed she's got no friends."

"As true as that might be," Harry observed, hiking up his robes to move faster. "she probably knows a lot more hexes than we do. I'd watch my back, were I you."

"Humph," Ron snorted though his nose as he shifted the books in his arms. "You don't have to tell me twice. I still think she was the one that murdered Scabbers."

"That was probably Mrs. Norris, Ron, and you know it."

Yes, the Unfortunate Affair of the Disappearing Scabbers had not helped Weasley-Granger relations.

After taking Scabbers to the Hospital Wing following his 'unfortunate paralysis' on the train, Ron had instead been told to take Scabbers to Professor Kettleburn, the Professor of Care of Magical Creatures, a third-year elective course. The Infirmary did not, apparently, deal with pets. Harry had decided to tag along. He wanted to see if Ron could keep his façade up through his conversations with the teachers, or if he genuinely cared for Scabbers.

Professor Kettleburn (a rather odd man, Harry thought, as he was both eccentric and missing the vast majority of his limbs) had taken Scabbers and poked at him for a little while with his wand, and then hauled out a great dusty tome. He consulted the tome for a longer while, and he hobbled over to Ron on his half of a leg and handed him Scabbers.

"Is he better?" Ron had inquired hopefully of the professor, holding Scabbers very carefully.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Weasley," Professor Kettleburn had said, looking at Ron with genuine sadness. "A botched spell is a very tricky thing. For humans, it can take months at St. Mungo's to recover – if they ever do. A botched spell on a rat, let alone one involving the central nervous system? I'm afraid that there's very little I can do. Treatment might be possible, but it would also be prohibitively expensive, and your rat is (if I'm not mistaken) already very old. Chances are he wouldn't have lived much longer anyway. The best thing for him would be to put him down quietly."

"No!" Ron had gasped, instinctively clutching Scabbers to his chest. He then modulated his tone. "Um, no thank you, sir. Scabbers means a lot to me. I'd rather keep him, even if I have to spend more time taking care of him."

True to his word, Ron had spent a good deal of time attending to the needs of his pet rat. For a few days, Scabbers had lived well, if not happily.

Namshiel had observed that a willingness to paralyze a being he so loved proved that Ron was a person who was very dedicated to his goals. Then again, Ron seemed to have assumed the paralysis to be reversible, which indicated a lack of forethought.

Unfortunately, Scabbers had then disappeared without a trace. Despite mobilising all of his many brothers to help look for the rat, Ron had found neither head nor hair of the pet for some time. Eventually, however, one of the twins had found some tiny, fragile bones inside a hairball in Filch's office (what Fred had been doing in there, Harry could only imagine). The implications were obvious, though Harry sometimes wondered if Ron had killed the rat himself, so as to justify starting a feud with Hermione.

"Maybe Mrs. Norris did the deed," Ron conceded after mulling it over, "but Hermione probably held Scabbers down while Mrs. Norris was doing it."

"He could still be alive," Harry offered hopefully, trying to make Ron feel better.

"Yeah," said Ron. "And maybe I'll find a Philosopher's Stone laying on the ground somewhere."

* * *

Harry had almost finished his pudding when the screaming started. In point of fact, he was just raising his spoon to his lips when Professor Quirrel threw open the doors to the Great Hall and sprinted towards the High Table, his turban askew and terror on his face.

Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table, and gasped, "Troll - in the dungeons - thought you ought to know."

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint, robes pooling about his still form.

There were many screaming wizards, and Harry was forced to cover his ears as Professor Dumbledore resorted to creating an enormous thundercrack to silence the panicking students. As the deafening boom split the air, everyone turned to the source.

"Silence!" Dumbledore bellowed, displaying a surprisingly good set of lungs for such an aged man. "Do not panic! Remain seated, if you please! No-one is to leave the Great Hall for any reason whatsoever!"

The children began to quiet, reassured by the ancient wizard's authoritative tone and quick action. Harry was simply grateful that he had managed to shut the others up. The troll was in the dungeons, for crying out loud – it was hardly an immediate threat to him.

"Professors Flitwick and McGonagall," Dumbledore said, lowering his voice, "will accompany me to the dungeons immediately. Professor Snape will enact containment measures. The rest of the staff is to remain here and ensure that no harm comes to the students. Madam Pomfrey, please see to Professor Quirrel."

Dumbledore stood up quickly, and began to stride from the room. The other professors were slower to follow. Professor McGonagall had just left the dais when Ron turned to Harry.

"I've just thought - Hermione."

"Granger? What about her?" Harry asked disinterestedly. His pudding demanded his attention, and he found it a far more attractive prospect than Hermione Granger.

"I heard from Lavender that Hermione was crying in the girls' bathroom and wanted to be left alone. She's near the troll, and she doesn't know about the danger!"

Harry bit his lip. He was torn about the matter – on the one hand, he did not particularly like Hermione, and the chances of her being injured were relatively low. The dungeons were expansive, after all, and the troll might well never get near her. On the other, he could hardly leave a defenseless girl in peril now, could he? That wouldn't be right or just. He didn't like Hermione, but he didn't want anything bad to happen to her. Really bad, at any rate.

 _I do hope you're not thinking of doing anything foolish_ , Namshiel remarked suspiciously. _Your life and health are far more valuable than Granger's_.

 _But I can't leave her there,_ Harry protested, bending his spoon between his fingers. _What if she gets hurt? I don't like her, but I don't hate her that much._

 _So tell Professor McGonagall, if you absolutely must. The matter is then resolved. You've done any duty you have, and not put yourself in any physical danger._

As always, Harry realized that Namshiel's solution was perfect, and so he tugged on the silky fabric of Professor McGonagall's robes as she passed.

"Now is not the time, Mr. Potter!" McGonagall scolded him, faint hints of a brogue emerging. "Whatever it is, it can wait! We are in the middle of an emergency!"

"But Professor!" Harry exclaimed, widening his eyes and injecting the proper amount of concern into his tone. "Hermione is still in the girl's bathroom in the dungeons!"

McGonagall turned deathly pale, and she sprinted from the room, robes flapping about her.

* * *

Wizards could travel great distances in the blink of an eye, Harry knew. He did not understand the 'how' of the matter, as explained by Namshiel, but he knew from his recent experiences that it was possible. He assumed that it was possible for the teachers to do the same thing at Hogwarts. That would have made it a matter of the utmost convenience for the teachers to quickly retrieve Hermione.

It was only after the tragic events of Hallowe'en that Harry learnt that Apparition was not permitted in Hogwarts. It was prevented by some ancient magic that the Headmaster alone could remove. Given that Dumbledore had no earthly way of knowing of Hermione's predicament, crucial time was lost before he was informed by McGonagall and had lifted the spell to teleport directly to her location, slaying the troll in an instant. He hadn't been seen since the incident, either.

Those precious seconds, however, were more than enough to decide Hermione Granger's fate.

One could consider it a blessing or a curse, but Death's grim specter had decided to pass the young witch over.

That was not to say that she escaped unscathed. The rumors regarding her current condition spread through the halls like some sort of virulent disease, born and nourished in Hogwart's rumor mill – after all, this was the greatest scandal since the recent Gringotts break-in!

The rumors, unfortunately, didn't know the half of it. Harry was first made aware of this when he visited Hermione in the Hospital Wing.

Harry felt guilty about what happened to her – very guilty. It had been Ron's petty bullying that put her in that position, and he had encouraged it.

One day, in the evening, overwhelmed by remorse, he made his way up to the Infirmary to pay his respects (an action of which Namshiel disapproved immensely). He had begged Madam Pomfrey to let him visit Hermione. The venerable matron had eyed him like a vulture, but eventually nodded, told him to wait at the door, and disappeared into her sterile realm.

She returned in short order, and informed him that Hermione had consented to see him. He would be the first visitor she had received since that fateful night, and he Was Not To Upset Her, a condition to which he hastily agreed. Frankly, he was somewhat surprised that she had agreed to see him at all, given the antagonistic nature of their relationship.

The Infirmary was very white and very clean, much like any Muggle hospital. Upon one of the farthest beds was a body. It was mostly covered by crisp white sheets, but the frizzy brown hair that spilt onto the bedclothes was unmistakably Hermione's.

Harry hurried over to that bed, the rubber of his sneakers squeaking on polished marble floors. When he got close, Hermione turned her head to observe him rather gravely.

Then she smiled at him, tears coming to her eyes, and Harry realized that she must have suffered some horribly traumatic brain injury that altered her fundamental personality and/or memories.

"Harry," she said, voice catching in her throat, "I can't thank you enough for what you've done."

Harry stood there and blinked stupidly. He really didn't understand why she was thanking him – she had been in the bathroom because of his and Ron's constant needling and ill will.

"They told me that you were the one who informed Professor McGonagall that I was in the lavatory."

"Um," Harry said, still rather stunned, "yes, I suppose I was."

"Then you saved my life, Harry," Hermione said simply. Her voice was calm, but it broke slightly on the last word. "If there's ever anything I can do to repay you, just tell me."

"You're welcome, Granger. I'm sure you would have been fine, in any event. The professors would have arrived in time to prevent any injury, regardless of my warning."

Hermione's face clouded over at that, and she shook her head weakly.

"I'm going to assume that they didn't tell the students about the attack, then?"

"No," Harry admitted. "It's all being kept rather quiet."

Hermione's face twisted into a rather ugly expression, and she gripped her sheets so tightly that Harry thought she would surely tear them.

"I suppose they would, wouldn't they? After all, it wouldn't reflect very well on the school if it got out. Well, then, I'll tell you. After your oafish friend, that _Weasley_ , drove me to the bathroom out of shame and sorrow, I stayed there until it was time for dinner."

Harry decided that he was going to limit the time he spent around Ron after Hermione was discharged from the Infirmary. He didn't feel like being in the center of a magical firefight between two amazingly pigheaded people.

"When I realized what time it was, however, I vowed that I wouldn't be embarrassed by the likes of _him_. I wouldn't allow a petty bully's insults to control my life, ruin my day, and so I began to prepare to leave. I had just finished freshening up when the troll entered."

Harry could feel Namshiel raising his head, obviously interested by the mention of a troll. He couldn't quite fathom why – by all accounts, trolls were dull creatures, unique only in their extraordinary strength and resistance to magic. Or, at least that was what Professor Quirrell had taught them.

"The troll didn't bother coming through the door," Hermione continued, eyes far away. "No, it smashed right through the wall. I can only assume that it smelled me. They have a keen sense of smell, you know."

Yes, he had known that. Apparently, Hermione's experience with the troll hadn't cured her of the proclivity to lecture those she considered less intelligent than herself.

"It went straight for me and I panicked. I tried to lock myself inside one of the stalls, but that didn't go so well, as I'm sure you can imagine. The troll just ripped the door off the hinges and kept on coming. I crawled to the next stall, and the next one after that, but it just smashed through all of those with a giant club it was dragging about. There wasn't anywhere much to run after that – only the sinks, but it destroyed those quickly enough."

"It finally cornered me and tried to grab at me – I don't know why it didn't use its club, but that was a mistake. I'd recovered my wits sufficiently to try a bit of magic I'd learned – the Full Body-Bind Curse. It's an upper-year spell, and I wasn't sure I could manage it, but I did my best and cast it at the outstretched hand. To my delight, it froze the troll – but only for a fraction of a second."

Harry was impressed despite himself – he actually knew the incantation, but it was a spell he'd never been able to cast, along with many others. He envied Hermione for a split second before realizing that, in this case, there wasn't much to be envious of.

"Impressive. I'd give a great deal to learn how to do that, Hermione."

Hermione smiled back at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was a lifeless, twisted grimace.

"Perhaps I'll show you some time. Anyway, the spell seemed to anger him, from what I could tell. It was only then that it began to use its club in earnest. I may be good at magic, Harry, but I know my limits, and an athlete is one thing I'm not. I was only able to evade the troll for a few swings before he caught me in the small of the back and threw me into the far wall."

"I'm sure you can understand that I don't remember most of what happened after that. I wasn't really hurting, but everything had gone very warm and soft. I was terribly afraid, Harry; so terribly afraid that I was dying. I'd read enough about it to know what was happening, and it scared me. I didn't see anything but a bright light, and something dark descending slowly down towards me. But suddenly there was a brighter flash of light, and that chased the darkness away."

Well, that was very nice and an interesting take on dying, but a recounting of a near death experience really didn't tell Harry much about what happened during that time. After all, Hermione was alive, so the teachers must have done something to drive the troll off. Fortunately, Hermione looked as though she was about to continue.

"I woke up two days later in this very bed. They told me that Professor Dumbledore had stepped in front of me and taken the troll's blow on a Shield Charm, and dealt with the creature."

"That's most excellent new," Harry smiled. "That could have gone much, much worse, Hermione. I'm sure there isn't another witch our age who could have faced down a troll and ended up right as rain afterwards. You were very, very lucky."

Hermione bit her lip and turned her head away from him, and she muttered something he couldn't hear. He was puzzled by her reaction.

"What was that, Hermione?"

"I said," Hermione whispered, eyes wet, "that I wasn't nearly as lucky as you might think. I can't feel my body below where the troll hit me. It's like there's nothing there. Absolutely nothing. It feels like touching the limb of someone else entirely. I'm not going to be walking around any time soon, Harry. Or ever, for that matter."

 _Paralysis of the lower extremities, most likely caused by massive blunt force trauma to both the spine and legs. It would appear as though the wand-wizards cannot heal nerves,_ Namshiel guessed aloud. _Perhaps the damage was too severe. The question is, what will you do now? The girl is emotionally depressed, vulnerable. How will you respond?_

"Dumbledore hasn't been here to see me since the fight. For that matter, no-one has been here to see me, apart from you. I-I guess Ron was right about me. No-one cares about me."

Hot tears fell from her eyes, and her voice was low, quiet, agonised. "I am alone. My body is broken."

Impulsively, he moved closer to the bed and leaned down, enveloping Hermione in a hug. She trembled beneath his touch, and he hardly dared move for fear of shattering the trembling, heartbroken girl.

Time passed, but it was irrelevant, tangential. He didn't care about it. The moment would end when it would, and it could not be rushed.

He looked into Hermione's eyes, their faces almost touching, and said, his eyes never leaving hers, "You are not alone. I am with you always, even unto the end of the age."

* * *

Harry sat by her bedside until she fell asleep. Only when he was absolutely sure that she was deeply asleep did he creep out of the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey closed the door behind him.

Harry breathed deeply and stretched – his legs were horribly cramped from sitting there for so long. When he had massaged the aches out of his back, he cast his thought towards Namshiel, who was lurking in the deep recesses of his mind.

"How was that?" he asked/

 _Good. Very good,_ his mentor assured him. _That was a virtuoso performance that would not have shamed the greatest actor. I can almost guarantee that you have made a new friend._

"I felt bad about what happened to her. That doesn't mean I want to be her friend – even if she was nice for once. It might sound mean, but I don't know if I could stand her."

 _Perhaps not, but she certainly seems to want to be your friend, and I'll not have you sabotaging your future. The assistance of that young witch might prove invaluable in enabling you to perform wand-magic. I have weighed the consequences, and I believe her friendship is worth the price you must pay, both in acting as her friend and in your reputation amongst the pureblood circles._

"Harry Potter!" called a voice from behind him. "What are you doing over here at this hour?"

One of his heels hit the ground with unnecessary force, and he stopped walking. He inhaled through his nose and out again.

Speak of the Devil, Harry thought grumpily, and he shall appear. He'd been trying to avoid Malfoy all semester, and thus far he'd been successful. His luck appeared to have run out.

"I might ask you the same thing, Malfoy," Harry said, turning to face the other boy. "After all, the dungeons are rather farther away from the Hospital Wing. Not as far as Gryffindor Tower, but still."

"I was returning from the Owlery," Malfoy responded. "I was sending a letter to my father. He's quite important, you know. He speaks with the Minister almost daily, and old Fudge relies rather heavily on him. He's also on the Board of Governors, no less. Now answer my question."

"That's rather rude of you, Draco," Harry said, raising an eyebrow. "If anyone else had asked me a question in such a manner, I might not have taken it very well."

Malfoy rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion and made a noise reminiscent of a whale. "So? What were you doing?"

How very rude.

"If you must know," Harry said, trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible, "I was visiting Granger in the Hospital Wing."

"Granger? The Mudblood?" Draco asked, a look of distaste crossing his face. "I had thought better of you than that, Potter. I was sorely disappointed when you were sorted into Gryffindor, but that incident with the Remembrall gave me a slight hope."

Ah, yes. The infamous 'Remembrall Incident,' wherein Neville Longbottom had broken his wrist and dropped a Remembrall.

Harry remembered it quite well. He hadn't objected to Malfoy taking it, per se, but he thought it a rather pointless act of petty bullying. Was it wrong? Yes. But it wasn't his business, and so he left the other Gryffindors to sort the matter out with Madam Hooch and wandered back inside. Being on a broom made him nauseous, and it was a waste of time. Why anyone thought of playing on them at high speeds with large metallic objects as fun was quite beyond him.

 _The inability of humans to set aside differences to achieve great ends shall ever be the lever by which they shall be moved to ruination_ , Namshiel observed from the back of his head. _Now, make the silly child leave. Preferably without insulting him; if you do not wish to befriend him, then so be it, but I shall not have him writing home to his father about you. Abraxas' brat was ever vengeful._

"A 'Mudblood'? How very _vulgar_ of you, Draco. She is quite precocious, especially given that she was raised in nonmagical environs. I was trying to persuade her to tutor me when she is sufficiently recovered; I intend to learn all that I can from her regarding magic. I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam."

"It's not my fault. The teachers all have favorites, and that girl is the class pet. Besides," Malfoy added venomously, "it's not as though _you_ were doing any better in class."

"Hence the tutoring, no? Besides, it was Ron's fault she was injured by the troll; by extension, I am somewhat culpable. I thought it best to offer my sincerest condolences on her accident. One can never make too many allies. And one must always make sure to pay the Rent."

Draco eyed Harry oddly, but he schooled his face into a pleasant, emotionless mask. Eventually, Malfoy shook his pale head at Harry.

"You're a strange one, Potter," the other boy said. "Very strange. Sorted into Gryffindor, which might have been expected. But I can tell that you've manners, unlike the rest of the uncouth barbarians and Muggleborns. And you appear to have some small measure of intelligence, though it is but a pittance when compared to mine."

"I'm honored," Harry sniped. He rather suspected Malfoy had the order of intelligence reversed there.

"But the troll," Malfoy continued, "now, that was the most exciting thing to happen in absolutely ages. Shows that the Headmaster's slipping. Father always said that Dumbledore was the worst thing that ever happened to this place."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I've no wish to say such a thing about a wizard who can slay a fully grown primordial troll with a single spell. Neither should you, for that matter – I hear Dumbledore can hear and see though the walls of the castle."

Malfoy turned a rather interesting shade of custard at that assertion and he quickly bid Harry adieu before scurrying off to the safety of his dungeons and fawning sycophants. Harry curled a lip after him.

"Trash."

* * *

As it turned out, Harry had stayed a rather long time with Hermione before she fell asleep, and his conversation with Malfoy had delayed him even further. He had just turned into the Trophy Room and was making his way towards the Common Room when the grand clock in the Clock Tower struck half-past nine.

Curfew was at nine sharp.

 _Damn_.

He decided to hurry on, and merely hope that no vigilant adult happened to catch him before he made it to his dormitory, but he had no such luck. He was almost halfway through the room when he heard a sickly, quavering voice behind him.

"Sniff around, our sweet, they might be lurking in a corner. Never can tell, with studentses. Tricksy, they are."

It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, Harry scurried silently toward the door, away from Filch's voice. His robes had barely whipped around the corner when he heard Filch enter the trophy room.

"He's in here somewhere," Harry heard him mutter, "probably hiding. Nasty student."

Harry sprinted down the gallery, not looking back to see whether Filch was following - he swung around the doorpost and galloped down one corridor then another without any idea where he was or where he was going, and ignoring Namshiel's directions in his blind panic. He ripped through a tapestry and found himself in a hidden passageway, hurtled along it and came out near the Charms classroom, which he knew was miles from the trophy room.

There he met the worst person (or spirit, rather) imaginable: Peeves. The troublesome specter was just merging from a classroom when he caught sight of Harry and gave a squeal of delight.

"Shut up, Peeves - please – you'll get me in trouble."

Peeves cackled.

"Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firstie? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you'll get caughty."

"If you don't move and stay quiet, Peeves, you'll regret it for the rest of your short afterlife."

"Should tell Filch, I should," said Peeves in a saintly voice, but his eyes glittered wickedly. "It's for your own good, you know."

" _Ventas servitas_!" Harry hissed, moving his hand in a small circle.

A small blast of sulphiric air struck the poltergeist, lifted him up, and hurled him into a corner of the room. For a second, that ghost sat there, evidently stunned that anyone could harm him. Then he looked at Harry. It was not a nice look.

"STUDENT OUT OF BED!" Peeves bellowed, "STUDENT OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!"

Ducking under Peeves, he ran for his life, right to the end of the corridor – which he found to be a dead end. He immediately turned around. What was he doing! Where was Filch?

 _Stop!_ Namshiel bellowed suddenly from the back of his mind. _Go no further!_

Harry screeched to a stop, leaning back so hard that he tumbled over. Namshiel's voice had been deadly serious – something was amiss.

 _Turn back towards the wall, Harry_ , his guardian bade.

Harry began to turn back towards the wall, but then he began to worry about Filch. What if the surly custodian caught him? Would he be expelled? Suspended? What if –

 _Close your eyes_ , Namshiel commanded, iron in his voice. Harry obeyed immediately.

 _Turn around one hundred-and-eighty degrees. Then move forward until I tell you to stop. Listen only to my voice, and to nothing else. Do not think; simply follow my voice. Now, shuffle forward until I tell you otherwise._

Harry did as he was bidden, shuffling forward on his hands and knees.. Namshiel kept whispering in his mind, soothing, caressing, whispering promises and ancient wisdom until –

 _Stop,_ Namshiel bade. Harry stopped.

 _Open your eyes_.

Harry did so, and he was astonished to see that he was at least twenty feet beyond where he remembered there was a wall. Some distance in front of him, Peeves was scanning the corridor with a pout on his face. Every time he looked in Harry's direction, however, his eyes simply slid over him and he would quickly turn around again.

In only a few moments, Argus Filch shuffled around the corner, lantern swinging from his gnarled fist and Scabber's murderer slinking around his ankles. He hobbled right on over to Peeves.

"Which way did they go, Peeveses?" Filch demanded of Peeves. "Which way did they go? Quick, tell us!"

"Say 'please.'"

"Don't mess with us, Peeves! Now where did the nasty studentses go?"

"Shan't say nothing if you don't say please," said Peeves in his annoying singsong voice.

"Please."

"NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn't say nothing if you didn't say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!" And then Peeves whooshed away and Filch was left cursing in rage.

"We almost had them," Filch whispered to the scrawny feline. "Almost. P'raps they looped back around again. They're tricksy, remembers."

The mentally unstable caretaker hurried off to look for rulebreakers somewhere else.

Harry sat there panting for a long time before he turned his head to look behind him. A great wooden door, shod in dark iron, loomed imposingly at the end of the hall, some dozen feet further on.

Namshiel had materialized and was poring over the aperture. His mentor appeared to be fascinated by the object.

"Where," Harry tried, disorientated, "are we? What happened? I was trapped, and then suddenly there was no wall, but neither Filch nor Peeves seemed to see me."

"I don't quite know," Namshiel responded, not looking up from his study of the door. "Some abandoned hallway near the Charms classroom. That is of little import. Far more interesting is what just happened to you."

"Yes?" Harry prodded.

"If I am correct - and I am always correct – then I just guided you past a Distracter Charm."

"A Distracter Charm? I don't remember learning about those in Charms class."

Namshiel snorted. "I would hardly expect them to teach you about something like this, Harry. This is the sort of work I might expect from a Senior Council Member, and it is true-magic. The last time I saw this particular charm in use was when Merlin took to the field after Hastings."

Harry felt his jaw drop open.

"Then again, it may have been at Prague. Or was it Ptolemy? I cannot recall . . ." the shade mused, stroking his chin. It didn't last long - Namshiel quickly shook himself out of the reverie.

"In any case, this magic is considered malevolent by true wizards, though I suspect the wand-wizards to be somewhat more lenient. The charm is cast on a small area or object – in this case, the doorknob. When one looks towards it or attempts to focus on it, he or she immediately has his or her attention diverted elsewhere. Simple and effective."

"Wow," breathed Harry. He couldn't imagine why someone would have something like that at Hogwarts. It was a school, after all – there really wasn't much to hide.

"It is made all the more interesting by the additional wards or protective enchantments on the door. This was a major undertaking – whomever did this was taking no chances. Come stand next to me."

Harry groaned, placed his hands under his stomach, and pushed himself to his feet. He winced as he moved – he had really hit his head on the stone floor when he'd fallen. He did his best to push past the pain and walk over to Namshiel.

"Spread your fingers and close your eyes. Hold your left palm up about two inches from the door. Yes, just so. Now, focus. See what you can feel."

Harry scrunched up his face as he ran his hand over the door, careful not to touch it. "Um," he said, shifting his weight back and forth restlessly. He honestly wasn't picking up much, apart from the hairs on his arms standing on end.

"There's . . . pressure? Um, or maybe a buzzing. Like high-power lines."

"Close enough," Namshiel grunted, waving Harry away from the door. "What you are sensing are some of the energies that are being used to ward this door. If you try to come in without disabling them, or without a totem, you'll take a jolt of electricity that wouldn't leave much more of you than a smudge on the ground. And that is the least of the defenses - the door is imbued with hundreds of more potent wards."

Harry pulled away from the door as though it had spontaneously combusted (which wasn't unrealistic, given the wards upon it), and moved what he hoped was a safe distance away.

"Ah," he said. "Dangerous."

"Very," Namshiel agreed. "Go back to your dormitory. We shall discuss this at greater length in my garden."

* * *

Later that night, the master and apprentice were sitting in Namshiel's temple and enjoying a spot of tea.

"Frankly," Namshiel told Harry as he stirred sugar into his tea, "I find it very odd that there are such wards in place. They are devastatingly lethal, though they have a relatively small area of effect. Someone must want to protect something very badly."

"Isn't it rather dangerous," Harry slurped, "to have wards like that in a school?"

"Not particularly. If it hadn't been for your panicked state, you would most probably have never gone anywhere near that hallway. The distracter charm, while weak at long range, nonetheless subliminally encourages the weak-willed to stay away."

"I'm not weak-willed!" Harry objected. He found the implication deeply offensive – previously, Namshiel had always praised him for his strength of will. That was an accolade he was loathe to forfeit.

"Hence, in part, why you were able to get so close. However, despite all of my teachings and your power, you are still a child. Your mind is not yet physically mature, and so you are more susceptible to such things. Once a being ages, it becomes very difficult to control them without breaking their mind – though persuasion is still possible."

"Is that why you were able to guide me though it?"

"I prefer to think of myself as rather young and sprightly," Namshiel replied rather stiffly.

Harry got the feeling that he had deeply offended Namshiel.

"But yes, in part. It actually has more to do with vagaries of perception and how I see things through you. As I am not a direct, but rather a passive observer, the spell had less effect. Moreover, it does not apply to memories and I was able to filter through your recent memories to create a perception existing at several moments in time."

Harry gawped at him, and Namshiel sighed.

"Yes, I know the concept is rather hard for finite beings to grasp, but do close your mouth, Harry. It is most unbecoming. If you really are interested in the field, I might show you how to do something like it in the future."

"So?" Harry asked, finishing off his tea. "What are we going to do about the door? What do you think is behind it?"

"The door," Namshiel eventually decided, "is an excellent opportunity for practice, and what lies behind it likely of little consequence to us. After all, it is not often that one sees such extraordinarily strong and esoteric wards, particularly amongst wand-wizards – though the distracter charm is not wand-magic. I do wonder how someone managed to get a true-wizard to cast such an enchantment."

"Practice?" Harry prodded.

"Yes, my son, practice. Knowing how to circumnavigate wards is an essential skill. Unfortunately, I have little knowledge of ward-breaking using wand-magic, so you will have to try true magic. I am not quite certain how it will interact with the wand magic, but it should prove to be an interesting experiment, to say the least."

"How am I going to practice?" Harry asked. "I can hardly go to the door every night."

"No – I can replicate similar charms here, and you may gradually progress to tinkering with the door. Here. Try this." Namshiel spoke a series of charms, and layer after layer of magic went up, delicate as a spider's web. Beautiful and deadly. "Now take it down."

Harry poked a magical hole in it, and the barrier erupted into flames.

"No, no, no," Namshiel growled, squelching the flames with a gesture. "One layer at a time, dear boy. Don't attempt to use brute force; the proper spells for disabling and draining wards are _disperdorius_ and _solvos_."

This time, Harry teased the magical wall apart though a rather clever conjunction of the two spells. It was a close thing – maintaining multiple spells at a time was extraordinarily taxing.

Namshiel wasn't satisfied until Harry had broken down three more of his magical constructs, by which time Harry was covered in perspiration.

"Is this," Harry panted, "how difficult the door will be?"

"Oh, no," Namshiel smiled, his eyes crinkling around the edges. "Barring extraordinary circumstances, you won't be able to get through those wards without a quarter-century of practice. That is why it's best to get you started at once."

* * *

 _We have about two, perhaps three, chapters left before the conclusion of First Year._


	8. Chapter 7: Iscariot

Chapter VII: Iscariot

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots. To the older students, this was a clear sign that the Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, the first match of the season would be held: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, they would move up into second place in the house championship.

Harry wouldn't really have given the sport the slightest thought if it hadn't been for his, well, friends. Friends, allies, minions. Words. La.

In any case, his circle of associates had expanded since the fateful events of Hallowe'en. Namshiel had been quite right when he suggested that the girl could become his most loyal friend for a song. She hadn't spoken of the words and embrace that passed between then in the Infirmary, but he could read her well enough to know that she was indescribably grateful.

To his surprise, Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about breaking rules and academics since her time in the infirmary, and she was much nicer for it. Her presence was very nearly tolerable – at least as tolerable as Ron's.

Of course, there had been something of a problem concerning the relationship between his two allies. Harry had initially worried that he would feel something like Britain had after the Second World War – trapped between two rival, nominally friendly, superpowers, and he had been partially correct.

The instant Hermione had been released from the infirmary, she had combed the castle in a floating chair (a wizard's solution to paralysis), looking for Ron. When she found him, the results had been disastrous.

Ron, being the insensitive git he was, had said nothing to Harry concerning his feelings about the Hallowe'en incident. As his confrontation with Hermione revealed, he felt even worse than Harry did.

In a frightening display of spell-work and knowledge, Hermione had unleashed a barrage of jinxes and curses upon the poor redhead. The display was still spoken of in hushed tones by the other students, and it had lost Gryffindor nearly one hundred and fifty points from a horrified Professor McGonagall (half of which a smirking Snape had uncharacteristically restored).

 _Hell hath no fury_ , Namshiel had observed.

Ron's feelings were evinced by the fact that he had simply stood there and taken the curses. He made no attempt to dodge or block the spells. Nor did he attempt to respond in kind. Apparently, his silly sense of honor and chivalry demanded it of him. Even more shocking was that when Hermione came to the Infirmary to view her handiwork, Ron had belched out an apology between the slugs that were regularly exiting his mouth. She had (grudgingly) accepted, and Ron had told her no apology on her part was required.

The enmity between the two had not disappeared, but it had receded to the level where Harry felt prompting the his safe being in the same room with them.

* * *

Ron had persuaded Harry to come to the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match, and Harry had reluctantly agreed (planning to spend much of the time talking to Namshiel). The real shocker was that a very nervous Ron had also asked Hermione to come with them by way of a sort of peace gesture. Hermione had accepted the invitation, and so on the day and time appointed, the three of them made their way out to the Quidditch field along with many other students.

Harry had his nose buried in _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , trying to discover what the other boys his age found so fascinating about the absurd sport. Ron was pushing Hermione's chair and Hermione was dragging Harry along by one hand when a cold hand fell on Harry's shoulder. Harry stopped and stiffened in shock, prompting his friends to do the same.

Professor Snape stood behind him, looking at Harry with his normally sour expression. He seemed to be looking for a reason to mock or tell Harry off, as was his wont.

"What's that you've got there, Potter?" Snape snapped.

Harry dutifully presented the book for inspection.

"Library books are not to be taken outside the school," said Snape. "Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor."

Harry handed him the book, making sure to snap it closed on Snape's fingers. The professor's sallow lips tightened.

"And another five points for injuring a teacher," he hissed before stalking off, his black robes billowing behind him. Harry thought he looked like a bat.

"He's just made that rule up," Harry muttered angrily as Snape limped away. "Well, the first one, at least. Wonder what's wrong with his leg?"

"Maybe he has gangrene, which will eat away at his flesh and slowly kill him," Ron proposed hopefully, but Harry wasn't listening. His blood was thundering in his ears and his eyes fixed on the horrible man who served as his Potions Master.

Snape had annoyed him one time too many, and he was going to pay the price, Harry decided. And soon.

Namshiel whispered his approval, and the two began plotting together.

Harry followed his arguing friends ("That's a horrible thing to say about a Professor, Ron!") to the stands. Unlike them, however, he didn't immediately begin the long climb up to the seats (or float, in Hermione's case). Instead, he rested one hand against a wooden post and scraped some freezing mud off of the bottom of one of his shoes.

Harry hummed happily as he started up the stairs, slowly rolling the bit of mud into a ball between his hands. When it was perfectly spherical, he began bouncing it up and down in one palm.

* * *

Harry, Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean (another First Year) in the top row. They (excepting Harry) had collaborated to paint a large banner on one of the sheets Scabbers had ruined. Several pro-Gryffindor slogans were painted on the top, and Dean, who was good at drawing, had drawn a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Then Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that the paint flashed different colors.

Harry thought it a waste of time and effort, but perhaps it was her way of burying the hatchet with Ron.

They didn't have to wait long before the teams began to stream out of the locker rooms, shaking their brooms and generally acting like braggadocios. A roar of noise greeted them; mainly cheers, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, but the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and hisses heard, too. Harry didn't join in. Anyone who needed to brag about their skill was someone whose skill was not to be feared. It was very unbecoming.

Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her broom in her hand. Before her lay a large, wooden chest bound in iron. It wriggled disconcertingly.

Madam Hooch asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which they did, giving each other threatening stares and gripping rather harder than was necessary.

"Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you," Hooch commanded, once the players were all gathered around her. The greying witch leaned down and grabbed the Quaffle from the chest.

"On my whistle," said Madam Hooch. "Three . . . two . . . one . . ."

She waited for the barest instant before throwing the ball into the air and blowing her whistle, and then the game was on!

At least, it had begun for most people.

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor - what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too -"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor."

The Weasley twins' friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the commentary for the match, closely watched by Professor McGonagall.

Harry didn't pay attention to the melee taking place around the Quaffle, or to the commentary – he was still watching Madam Hooch. Hooch had taken a step back from the chest, and then she gave it a sharp kick. Immediately, the two black Bludgers rose high in the air. One then pelted straight at Fred's (he thought) face. The Weasley swung at it with the bat, in order to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it zigzagging away into the air. The Bludger then zoomed around their heads and then shot at Marcus Flint's head.

Now the game could truly begin, Harry mused as he fixed his gaze on one of the two Bludgers. He began to roll the little ball of mud between his hands. He reached out towards both the mud ball and the Bludger with his true magic, and the slightest scent of sulfur began to taint the air.

" _Ubriacha,"_ Harry whispered under his breath, turning away from his friends, " _ubrius, ubrium!_ As above, so below!"

"Hagrid!" someone cried beside him, and Harry swore. That had very nearly interrupted the spell. He couldn't do something like this more than once; he had enough trouble as it was, even with Namshiel helping him, pouring some sort of energy into the casting.

Sure enough, the giant gamekeeper was behind him. Harry couldn't say he knew the man well, though he was always very friendly and seemed to have taken a shine to Harry. He simply wasn't someone Harry cared to spend much time around; Hagrid wasn't much of a conversationalist.

Hermione floated over into the aisle and Ron moved over to give Hagrid enough space to join them. He sat down, causing the bleachers to groan in stress.

"Bin watchin' from me hut," said Hagrid, patting a large pair of binoculars around his neck, "But it isn't the same as bein' in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch yet, eh?"

"Not yet," said Ron, who had been following the match closely.

Harry waited for a little while longer before he moved the mud ball, when most people's eyes were on Marcus Flint, who had bulldozed his way down to the Gryffindor goal. As Flint threw the ball, Harry picked up the little ball of mud and thrust it viciously towards the teacher's box opposite them, wherein sat one Severus Snape.

All eyes were on drama on the field, and so no-one noticed a black blur streaking towards the staff seating.

Everyone did notice, however, when that Bludger impacted with the seating with a thunderous crack. A great plume of wood splinters and debris were kicked up into the air by the force of the impact, and teachers were knocked every which way. The splinters flew from the point of impact, some of them as large and sharp as knives. The Bludger had hit with all the force of the cannonballs of yore, and the results were similar, and equally deadly.

One of the teachers – Professor Quirrell, Harry thought – let out a girlish scream, which drew all eyes to the stands. In turn, the chaos there set everyone else screaming, and the game momentarily paused as everyone regarded the destruction with horror. The Bludger had come so close to Snape that it had ruffled his robes, and left a hole directly behind him. The sour man was regarding it with some horror, blood trickling down his face from a nasty cut.

While they were busy looking at the hole, a black streak shot up into the sky and then plunged screaming down at the teacher once more. This time, it clipped Snape on the shoulder, spun him around, and sent him sprawling before crashing through the stands and readying itself for another attack.

It was a good thing Harry had moderated the force of the Bludger that time. The initial attack had been far too explosive and powerful – he hadn't wished to kill, only maim. Nor did he wish for much in the way of collateral damage.

Harry and his friends sat there watching, Harry discreetly moving his arm up and down at his side.

"That Bludger," Ron gasped. "Bloody hell! It's gone rogue!"

Hermione's eyes were as wide as saucers, and she was murmuring to herself.

"The Bludger appears to be moving somewhat erratically – it wasn't accurate enough to hit Professor Snape. Moreover, it appears to be struggling as it moves – look, it keeps shaking back and forth! Someone must have cursed it!"

"Can't have," Hagrid said, his voice shaking. "Can't nothing interfere with those h'objects except powerful Dark magic - no kid could do that to a Bludger."

At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid's binoculars, and instead of looking up at Harry (for which he was very grateful), she started looking frantically at the crowd.

"What are you doing?" moaned Ron, gray-faced. The motion of the ball appeared to have made him sick.

"Looking for anyone casting a curse," Hermione told him. "The ball appears to be fixated on Snape, the git, so it's probably a student."

Ron grabbed the binoculars. Snape was in the middle of the stands opposite them, desperately trying to cast some charm with his uninjured arm.

"He's doing something – probably counterjinxing the Bludger," said Hermione.

"What should we do?"

"Do?" Hermione laughed nervously, her voice rising. " _Do_? Ronald, whoever jinxed that Bludger has successfully overridden or destroyed the charms imprinted on it when it was manufactured; those charms are the same ones used in professional rules! There's little we _can_ do if we can't find the person casting the spell!"

The friends were reduced to staring helplessly as the Bludger hurtled once more towards Snape, who didn't seem to be able to reach his wand with his good hand.

But on the opposite side of the stand, Headmaster Dumbledore had risen to his feet, cold fury written in every line of his ancient face. He whipped his gnarled wand from a sleeve and flicked it once. When the Bludger came within a dozen feet of the staff box, it shivered and convulsed, and a million tiny iron shavings rained down on the dazed and injured faculty.

Snape was dragging himself to his feet, the whites of his eyes visible even from where Harry sat. Snape's lank hair was in great disarray, and he bled from countless gashes, both small and large. Debris covered his tattered robes, and he was grimacing and clutching at his shoulder.

Harry frowned slightly and released his magic before squishing the mud ball into oblivion.

Namshiel was very pleased, but Harry was not. He didn't think that had gone nearly far enough. Not as far as killing, mind you. Just mortal wounds and possibly paralysis.

* * *

As it turned out, the Hogwarts faculty had been very lucky. Most had escaped with abrasions and cuts or bruises. The only one with truly severe injuries was Severus Snape. The impact of the Bludger had shattered his collarbone, dislocated his shoulder, and broken the upper part of his arm. All of Hogwarts was left greatly shaken by the attack.

Harry was satisfied with that. He'd come a bit too close to killing several members of the faculty – he'd greatly underestimated the speeds at which his magic would propel the ball.

He'd gotten off scot-free, too. Unlike wand magic, which would have circumvented the charms and left a lasting impression of the magic used on the Bludger, this true magic did not. Essentially, Harry had just brute-forced the material Bludger into altering its path and speed as he wished, totally ignoring the charms laid upon it.

Thus, in the investigation that had followed the incident, nothing truly conclusive could be established. The charms on the ball hadn't been altered, and were still intact. Eventually, it was simply decided that the targeting and speed limiting charms on the ball had failed or been cast improperly. The matter was then summarily dismissed, though not forgotten.

Which was very convenient for him, of course.

"Please?" Harry begged, looking at Hermione with his big green eyes. "You said _anything_."

"I was more thinking of one thing," Hermione protested. "This would entail multiple meetings and a great deal of time."

Harry widened his eyes in what he hoped was a pathetic manner. He could sense that Hermione was close to giving in.

"But I'm not doing very well in class, Hermione, and you're the smartest witch in the whole school. Won't you _please_ help me learn magic? You've already helped Neville a bunch of times."

Hermione turned her face away from him, but he could still see her blushing.

"Well," she sniffed, "I'll consider it, but right now, it's time for class."

* * *

Winter was coming.

This was made very clear one morning in mid-December, when Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and the Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several snowballs so that they followed Professor Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban. The few owls that managed to battle their way through the stormy sky to deliver mail had to be nursed back to health by Hagrid before they could fly off again.

The bitter cold permeated even the castle itself, leeching the ancient stones of their heat. While the Gryffindor common room and the Great Hall had roaring fires, the drafty corridors had become icy and a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms. Worst of all were Professor Snape's classes down in the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist before them and they kept as close as possible to their hot cauldrons. Students wore heavy cloaks, but those only did so much good against the pervasive cold.

The change in season seemed to make Namshiel extremely irritable and quiet. For reasons unknown to Harry, Namshiel demanded that Harry stay at Hogwarts for Winter Break, so Harry wasn't going back to Privet Drive or to Jeeves for Christmas. Professor McGonagall had come around the week before, making a list of students who would be staying for the holidays, and Harry had signed up at once. He didn't feel sorry for himself at all.

Come to think of it, Namshiel had later actually made Harry promise not to leave the castle itself until Winter ended. And it was all because someone had reported a strange, pale-haired woman on the grounds, and Namshiel had gone absolutely mad about that.

Harry wrote it off as mere paranoia. Someone had probably just seen Malfoy in the wrong light; He couldn't think of any reason to be so concerned.

Hermione had decided to go home for the holiday (to her parents, who were less than pleased with the events of the past semester). Ron and his brothers were staying, though, because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania to visit Charlie.

Harry and Ron simply wandered around the school and explored like boys normally do when presented with an enormous castle brimming with secrets.

And they played wizard chess.

Lots and lots and lots of wizard chess. Ron was very good at it, and Namshiel proclaimed it a valuable mental exercise. So he learnt from Ron all that he could, and eventually he was able to put up a greatly prolonged fight against the Weasley, though he never proved victorious.

The most important lesson he learnt from that was that, in chess, pawns go first. Even if they protested mightily about it, which the animated figurines were apt to do.

Christmas came up rather soon. Harry hadn't even realized it until Ron dragged him to the Great Hall. The Dursleys had always celebrated Christmas rather extravagantly – with Harry locked safely away in his cupboard. Nor were there any presents for him.

He supposed he wasn't a very religious person. Namshiel approved heartily of this.

 _Rise up, walk, and live with the truth_ , his mentor whispered. _Set faith aside for those who cannot see. More blessed are those who have seen, and know._

Therefore, on Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward to the next day for the food and the fun, but not expecting any presents at all. When he woke early in the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a few packages at the foot of his bed.

"Merry Christmas," said Ron sleepily as Harry scrambled out of bed and pulled on his bathrobe.

"I think I know who that one's from," said Ron, turning a bit pink and pointing to a very lumpy parcel. "My mom. I told her you didn't expect any presents and - oh, no," he groaned, "she's made you a Weasley sweater."

Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-knitted sweater in emerald green and a large box of homemade fudge.

"Every year she makes us a sweater," said Ron, unwrapping his own, "and mine's always maroon."

"That's kind of her," said Harry distractedly. He was engrossed in trying the fudge, which was very tasty. Then it struck him.

"Ron," Harry began, "I-I didn't get you anything. I don't really celebrate Christmas, and I didn't expect any presents or really even think about it."

Ron raised an eyebrow, but he eventually just shrugged.

"That's fine, mate. Some of the older families don't celebrate Christmas; they use Winter Break to celebrate the Solstice. Just consider it a Winter Solstice gift, eh? And don't worry about gift -giving; you can just give me a present whenever it's convenient."

"Sure," said Harry, grateful that he hadn't offended the normally choleric redhead. "An end-of-school gift, maybe?"

His oldest friend nodded his approval, and they both went back to unwrapping their presents and showing them to each other.

Hermione, as it turned out, had given Harry a gilded card entitling him to, 'one year of tuition-free tutoring.'

Harry breathed a sigh of satisfaction. It seemed that his efforts to persuade Hermione to tutor him hadn't been in vain. Soon, he thought, with her aid, he would be able to unlock the secrets of wand-magic.

This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt it. It was very light. He unwrapped it.

Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Ron gasped.

"I've heard of those," he said in a hushed voice. "If that's what I think it is – they're really rare, and really valuable."

"What is it?"

Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It was strange to the touch, like water woven into material.

"It's an invisibility cloak," said Ron, a look of awe on his face. "I'm sure it is - try it on."

Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Ron gave a yell.

"It is! Look down!"

Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. He dashed to the mirror. Sure enough, his reflection looked back at him, just his head suspended in midair, his body completely invisible. He pulled the cloak over his head and his reflection vanished completely.

"There's a note!" said Ron suddenly. "A note fell out of it!"

Harry pulled off the cloak and seized the letter. Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen before were the following words:

 _Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well._

 _A Very Merry Christmas to you_.

There was no signature. Harry stared at the note. Ron was admiring the cloak.

"I'd give anything for one of these," he said. "Anything. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," said Harry.

Well, apart from the fact that he didn't need a cloak to turn invisible. Or a wand. Namshiel had been trying to teach him veils, and Harry could use those instead.

 _No, you can't. Not if you want to want to actually turn invisible, and once invisible, stay that way for more than a second. You can't do either._

* * *

Christmas dinner was, of course, superb. Harry had never in all his life had such a meal. A hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas; tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce.

There were little party favors as well, to amuse the other children. Harry didn't actually set off any of the crackers – he was far more interested in studying the spells on them. He was particularly curious as to how some very large objects fit into such small spaces. Namshiel wasn't nearly as interested, and he withdrew to the far reaches of Harry's mind.

Harry refused, at Namshiel's order, the invitation of the Weasleys to a snowball fight. He couldn't leave the castle, but on the whole, the day had been surprisingly pleasant. He didn't care much for the symbolic nature behind it, but the presents and food were great fun.

He decided that he didn't care to spend any holidays with the Dursleys unless it was absolutely necessary. Not when he'd seen what the breaks were like for normal children.

Harry was awake very late that night, studying the cloak. He could feel Namshiel peering through his eyes, doing the same.

His father's . . . this had been his father's. He let the material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light as air. A sort of cold power seemed to flow from it, hardly noticeable.

 _Use it well_ , the note had said.

He had to try it, now. He slipped out of bed and wrapped the cloak around himself. Looking down at his legs, he saw only moonlight and shadows. It was a very funny feeling.

 _Use it as you see fit_ , a voice said.

Wasn't that the same thing?

Suddenly, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of Hogwarts was open to him in this cloak. Excitement flooded through him as he stood there in the dark and silence. He could go anywhere in this, anywhere, and Filch would never know.

And then it came to him. All of the possibilities that lay in front of him.

The Restricted Section in the library. He'd be able to read as long as he liked, whenever he liked. He was sure that there were books in there that would actually contain interesting material, material of practical utility unlike the banal content he was currently learning.

 _Books of power_ , Namshiel whispered to him _, of true knowledge. The possibilities are endless, my host._

More conveniently, the cloak would allow him to regularly visit what he termed The Door. He wasn't quite ready to begin analyzing the wards on it, let alone breaking them, but it would be useful in the future.

The Restricted Section it was, then.

* * *

The library was pitch-black and very eerie. Harry lit a lamp to see his way along the rows of books. The lamp looked as if it was floating along in midair, and even though Harry could feel his arm supporting it, the sight gave him the creeps.

The Restricted Section was right at the back of the library. Stepping carefully over the rope that separated these books from the rest of the library, he held up his lamp to read the titles.

They didn't tell him much. Their peeling, faded gold letters spelled words in languages Namshiel had to translate for him to understand. Some had no title at all. One book had a dark stain on it that looked horribly like blood. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled. Maybe he was imagining it, maybe not, but he thought a faint whispering was coming from the books, as though they knew someone was there who shouldn't be.

He had to start somewhere, even if he had no particular idea of what to seek out first. Setting the lamp down carefully on the floor, he looked along the bottom shelf for an interesting looking book. A large black and silver volume caught his eye. Without bothering to ask Namshiel about the silver lettering on the spine, he pulled it out. It turned out to be very heavy, but after carefully balancing it on his knee, he let it fall open.

A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence - the book was screaming! Harry snapped it shut, but the shriek went on and on, one high, unbroken, earsplitting note.

 _Silence it_ , Namshiel snapped, _before someone hears it. An invisibility cloak does not muffle sound, and I dislike the feel of this cloak._

" _Arctis!"_ Harry whispered, and a thick rime of ice completely sealed the tome, silencing the annoying keening.

 _Perhaps_ , Namshiel said crossly, _someone ought to be more careful in their selection of books and ask others first. We must leave – someone may have heard the noise._

Harry did leave- but not before filching another, safer, Restricted Book.

* * *

Harry Potter was not good friends with Neville Longbottom.

Oh, the other boy was _alright_ , and his family of some importance, but Harry still did not enjoy his company. His practical magic was as bad as Harry's, and his understanding of theory far worse. The only area he did particularly well in was Herbology.

In short, there wasn't much benefit to befriending the spineless worm. Harry would rather have spent the time with Malfoy – at least then he could have amused himself by provoking the Slytherin. He couldn't get a response out of Neville – the boy was too meek.

Quite honestly, Harry had no idea why Neville had been sorted into the House of the Lion.

It was a surprise, therefore, when Neville intentionally sought Harry out where he had been cloistered in the Library.

"Harry?"

Harry slammed the book he was reading closed with the greatest alacrity, and covered it with his cloak. After all, First Years were not supposed to be reading books from the Restricted Section – especially not _Most Potente Potions_. That was regrettable, because he had just gotten to the interesting section on slow-acting poisons.

He had to find some way to do in Snape, after all.

"What do you want, Longbottom?"

Neville flinched backwards at his harsh tone, but Harry really couldn't have cared less. If Neville wanted to ask him something, he shouldn't have done it while Harry was reading.

"W-well, I was h-hoping you could help me with something . . ."

"Depends on what it is, I suppose," Harry decided.

"I was talking to Hagrid the other day," Neville revealed, "and he mentioned something about a Nicolas Flamel. Since you've the top marks in History of Magic, I thought you might know something about whoever that is . . ."

"Flamel," Harry said, eyes going dull as he drew upon Namshiel's knowledge. "Flamel . . . ah, yes. French alchemist and wizard, born circa the fourteenth century. Notable only for the creation of a . . . Philosopher's Stone!"

Neville's eyes widened to the size of carriage wheels, and he began to hop off towards the exit.

"Thanks, Harry!" Neville called over his shoulder. Harry waved a hand dismissively.

"Of course. Go get McGonagall or Hermione or someone to fix your legs; I find the thumping most tiresome."

Neville pinkened at that, but he managed to hop off in good order.

 _A Philosopher's Stone?_ Harry mentally hissed at Namshiel. _A Philosopher's Stone? Why haven't you ever told me about those? Even Muggles know about them!_

 _Because you didn't need to know. If you had one, you wouldn't know what to do with it. Besides, the objects have their drawbacks._

 _Oh?_ Harry snarked. _Drawbacks? Like immortality and an infinite supply of gold?_

 _Limited immortality, yes_ , Namshiel responded. _As I said, it wouldn't have done you much good. If so much as a week passes without a draught of the Elixir of Life, you turn to dust. It is an extremely crude method of gaining long life. It is most assuredly not true immortality. Besides, why lust after something you already have?_

Harry's mouth dropped open.

"Explain!" he hissed. "Now!"

He hadn't realized he was speaking out loud until Madam Pince shot him a rather nasty look over her spectacles.

Harry quieted down after that. Madam Pince was _not_ someone to be taken lightly.

Namshiel refused to respond, but he projected an annoying aura of smug superiority at Harry.

 _Ask me again this summer, when we are far from prying eyes and ears . . ._

* * *

The term was coming to a close, and that bane of every student's life had finally surfaced.

Final exams.

Hermione and Neville had both gotten particularly worked up about the exams; Neville didn't even seem to be sleeping well. He was probably having nightmares about Potions and Professor Snape.

Harry really didn't care. He knew things that had been lost to the sands of time; of what worth were letters on paper?

It was sweltering hot, especially in the large classroom where they did their written papers. They had been given special, new quills for the exams, which had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating spell.

Of course, they really didn't have anything that could prevent Namshiel from whispering the answers inside Harry's head. His mentor seemed to be able to read a question and formulate an essay in response, all in less than a second. As such, he did very well in those exams.

They had practical exams as well, though, and that was where Hermione's tutoring was invaluable to him. Without that additional edge, Harry rather suspected that he might not have passed some of the exams.

Professor Flitwick, for instance, called them one by one into his class to see if they could make a pineapple tap-dance across a desk (Harry's sort of flopped across the desk like a walrus – when it consented to move at all).

Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse into a snuffbox - points were given for how pretty the snuffbox was, but taken away if it had whiskers.

His didn't have whiskers, nor was it very pretty. It did, however, have both a tail and proclivity for cheese.

Nonetheless, he managed to scrape passing scores on those exams – barely. Had Hermione given him additional tutoring, he knew he would have failed those, completely and utterly. As it was, it was a very close thing.

Snape tried to make Harry nervous, breathing down his neck while he tried to make a Forgetfulness potion. It didn't work of course, and Harry made an almost perfect potion. It wasn't quite perfect simply because, on the off-chance that Snape might have graded the potions by sampling them himself, Harry threw a spring of aracoina into the mix. Aracoina was a neutral herb – it wouldn't actually damage the efficacy of the potion, or chance its appearance, but it would make it very, very poisonous. It was a slow-acting poison, both subtle and difficult to treat.

One could only hope.

Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour of answering questions about batty old wizards who'd invented self-stirring cauldrons and they'd be free, free for a whole wonderful week until their exam results came out. When the ghost of Professor Binns told them to put down their quills and roll up their parchment, Harry couldn't help cheering with the rest, childish though it might have been.

Understandably, Ron and Hermione wanted to relax after the battery of tests they had just been through, so after the tests, Harry and Ron took Hermione down to the lake. Sid the Giant Squid was there too, basking in the warm shallows, so they threw bits of candy into the water for him.

Harry didn't know how the giant creature could see the bits of candy, or even bother with them, but he did. Sid the Squid used his tentacles to gather up every bit of candy thrown and shovel them down his gullet.

Apparently, giant squids could have a sweet tooth for candy. Who knew?

"That was much better than I thought," Hermione eventually said, staring off into the distance. "I needn't have learned about the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of Elfric the Eager."

"Humph," Harry snorted. "How those werewolves haven't spread all over the globe already, I'll never know. An infectious disease that spreads with every human bitten . . ."

"That's because they're good people, Harry. They're careful to lock themselves up on the night of the full moon, and take Wolfsbane Potion. They're people too, no matter how they're treated."

"It's a good thing they aren't very dangerous," Harry mumbled, thinking of other lupine shapeshifters that were far, far more deadly at the full moon.

His traitorous minions stared at him as though he were some sort of madman, and Harry quickly changed the subject.

"So, Hermione, what did the Healer from St. Mungo's say?"

A shadow came over Hermione's face at those words, and she bowed her head.

Her parents had insisted upon taking Hermione to St. Mungo's for a second opinion on her paralysis. Harry hadn't heard how the matter had gone.

"Nothing good," Hermione scowled. "He only confirmed Madam Pomfrey's claim that the damage couldn't be fixed by magic. Anything but the spine, he claimed, or the brain, they could fix. Apparently, though, the clusters of nerves make the damage almost impossible to reverse. They could try, but they'd probably make matters even worse; apply the incantation to the wrong thing, and it might even kill me."

"I'm really very sorry, Hermione. Is there no way to help you?"

" _They_ certainly didn't think so."

"Is it very bad?" Ron asked, not unkindly.

"It's horrible, Ron," Hermione said softly. "It's a difference between night and day. Sometimes I still try to stand up and walk, when I'm not thinking about it. And there is pain, too; it's not real, of course, but it still makes life miserable. I'd do almost anything to restore my legs."

 _How very interesting_.

* * *

After dinner, the three of them sat together in the common room. Hermione was skimming through all her notes, trying to remember the questions from the tests and if she had missed any of them.

Ron wanted to play some more chess, but he was very sleepy. He didn't make it past the opening moves of the game before he began nodding off. The stubborn boy wanted to keep playing every time Harry woke him up.

Eventually, Harry waited for him to fall asleep and then dragged him up to the dormitory and dumped him on his bed. He then went back downstairs; Hermione had apparently retired for the night, and the room was slowly emptying as the other Gryffindors drifted off to bed.

Harry felt wide awake, for his part. The school mandated final exams weren't the only ones he would be participating in today.

Today, Namshiel had decided that Harry would finally be ready to begin looking at the Charms and wards on the Door. Harry had apparently learned enough about the more common wards that Namshiel had decided it was not suicide for him to examine the wards on the door.

That wasn't why Harry was nervous, though. In the mindscape, Namshiel's practice wards had always been visible – in a sense, corporeal. He could see the power in them, the intent behind them, and how they interacted. Most importantly, he could see the arcane symbols involved, the aftereffects of the spells used. From that, he could begin to guess how the wards worked, what spells or charms had been used, what they did, and if it was safe to try to tease some apart.

With the Door, he didn't have that luxury. In the real world, Charms and wards were naturally invisible – a very convenient security measure. Various draughts and other potions were often used by Curse-Breakers to examine wand-magic charms, whether by sight, hearing, or smell (it was different for each wizard). Very, very skilled ones often didn't even need that; they were so experienced, so sensitive to the changing currents of magical power, that they could sense the details of the warding charms without needing additional aid, and thus break them.

Those potions, however, took an absurd amount of time to brew, and were so difficult to make that Harry (himself a budding potioneer), would not have dared to try to make them save under the direst of circumstances. Given that, since he was decades, perhaps centuries, from reaching the level of expertise where he didn't need aid to sense the potions, that left only two viable routes open for him.

Certain spells of true magic allowed a caster to use metal filings to outline the currents of magical power. The filings, powered by the spell, would attach themselves to the currents of magic in the area, forming complex geometrical patterns and arcane runes. That was how it worked for true magic, at least. Harry wasn't sure it would illuminate wand-magic. Harry had come across a rather similar spell in the Library for use with charms, but he lacked the skill to cast it; it was surprisingly difficult.

Alternatively, he could use his Sight for the first time. There was no other way to perfectly see the magics involved so that he could begin to understand them. Going in blind was suicide; using his Sight could leave him traumatized.

There was a reason most wizards left ward-breaking well enough alone.

Harry slipped on the Invisibility Cloak and began to make his way down to the Door, mouth dry with anticipation and nervousness.

* * *

He first knew something was wrong when he turned the corner to the Charms corridor and didn't feel the gentle push of the Distracter Charm against his mind, a push that should have grown in intensity as he approached the Door.

He'd expected to have to ask Namshiel to guide him through again, but this time he was able to turn down the side corridor leading to the Door.

Still, he felt no pressure on his mind, and when he came around the corner he immediately knew why.

The Door that had stood there, black and unmovable, had been shattered by some unimaginable force. Pieces of charred and stressed ebony were strewn across the floor, numerous as the ashes after a great fire. The wrought iron that had once bound the wood securely lay hissing amidst the chunks of wood, and the enchanted doorknob was little more than a pile of hissing slag.

Harry surveyed the wreckage in stunned silence. Those wards had – Namshiel had once claimed – been strong enough to keep out anyone in the school, save perhaps Dumbledore. That boded ill.

Harry had a horrible feeling that he was in far, far over his head. Only the ancient mentor in his head kept him from turning around and going straight back to the dormitories.

 _The wards have been obliterated_ , Namshiel informed him. _They were intimately linked to the physical composition of the door. The Distracter Charm has been dismantled in a similar fashion. A few alert charms remain around the doorway, but they appear to have been suppressed._

"Who did this?" Harry whispered. He didn't want to draw the attention of whatever had done this, if it was still in the area.

 _Wand-magic, of some sort. An extremely strong and carefully focused blast of fire and force. It's unusual, though; normal fire shouldn't have been able to harm that door, which takes most of the normal wand-spells you know out of the equation. There's something else as well, though, something old. Very old, and possessing a grim darkness . . ._

"That's the end of the discussion," Harry decided. "There is no way I am pursuing whoever did this, let alone fighting them."

 _If I decide you will, you will. 'Twould not be suicide, either, as long as the proper precautions are taken . . ._

That was how, after a several minutes of arguing and preparation, Harry found himself stepping through the dark doorway.

He stopped just inside the doorway and Listened carefully. There wasn't any sound but a steady dripping coming from further into the darkness.

Harry drew his wand, wrinkling his nose at the metallic, bestial smell that seemed to pervade the room, and tried to cast a Wand-Lighting Charm.

It didn't work, of course. Harry thrust it back into his pocket and held up his left hand. From beneath the skin, a fiery red glow erupted, bathing the room in its scarlet radiance, and revealing just what had happened.

Bile rose to Harry's mouth as he did his best not to vomit up his dinner at the sight before him.

In the middle of the room lay a mangled pile of flesh, fur, and metal, dark liquid pooling out from beneath it.

Harry covered his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his robe, and then carefully edged closer.

Up close, the sight made him feel even more ill. The remains were quite clearly those of some enormous dog – albeit one with three heads and serpents growing from random places upon its body. It was covered in some sort of spiked battle armor – not that that had done it much good.

The body had been flayed in places, lacerated with deep cuts in others, but that wasn't what had killed it. No, several things had done that. One was the disemboweling, of course. He could see that quite plainly – glistening ropes of intestines drooped from deep, deep gashes in the creature's belly. Blood and other unidentifiable liquids dripped from them, creating the sound he'd first heard.

One of the heads appeared to have been blown to bits by some spell. Another had its throat slit deeply and cleanly, as if by a razor, and the final head simply had its eyes closed and drooled dark blood from its mouth. Where that blood and spittle fell, small plants began to sprout from the floor.

Whoever had destroyed the door had really done a number on the first two heads, and then left the Cerberus to die from its massive internal injuries. Which it had, of course.

"Namshiel, I think I'm going to be sick."

 _Yes, yes, I'm sure it's very horrid,_ Namshiel said unsympathetically. _But look at the blood – it's slowly disappearing beneath the beast. There must be an aperture of some sort beneath it. You'll have to move the corpse._

If Harry hadn't been sick before, he was now, and he proved it by vomiting onto the stone floor.

* * *

It was a very bloody and rather smelly Harry who peered down the trapdoor into the room below the first one. This one appeared to be better lit by innumerable small fires dancing in the nooks and sort of blackened vegetation.

"What d'you suppose all this is guarding?"

 _I'm sure I don't know, my dear boy. That's why you're going to find out._

Harry cautiously dropped down into a patch of vegetation that was actively burning. It crumpled into ash wherever he touched it.

What's this stuff?" were his first words.

 _Dead_ , replied Namshiel, and indeed it was. Whatever had been here was now no more than charcoal, much like the Door.

 _I shouldn't be surprised to find that most defenses have been likewise destroyed. Whoever came down here before you was very thorough in his work. All the better; we should be able to catch up with him or her all the more quickly._

"Yeah," Harry grumped, "and what happens then?"

 _You stall for time._

The next room was quite bright, and rather arid – a pleasant contrast to the smoke-and-blood filled air of the previous two rooms.

That did not mean that he was going to let his guard down, of course. Something about the room raised the hairs on the back of his neck, but he couldn't quite place it.

It was probably the fact that, at first, there appeared to be absolutely no obstacle. Across the gymnasium-sized room (which he attributed to magic – it was quite unthinkable that a room this size should otherwise exist) was the other door. It wasn't locked or guarded, either – just an empty doorway leading into darkness.

The floor was sandy, and the room well lit, so there wasn't really anywhere to hide.

Harry did not like it, and Namshiel liked it even less, hissing a sibilant warning.

 _Something is not right – this room's defenses are not down. I can still sense the presence of magic in this room, even if nothing appears amiss. Proceed with the utmost caution, dear host. I would be most displeased if anything untoward were to befall you._

Harry nodded, and the carefully placed one shoe upon the sand.

Nothing happened, so he took another step. And another. He had almost relaxed when a thick sheet of iron materialized from the air and settled into the doorway he had just exited.

"Oh, bugger."

At that point, Harry knew he was in trouble. He knew he was in even more trouble when sand began to pour from the ceiling.

 _Run._

Harry obeyed, sprinting as fast as his short legs could carry him. He'd made it almost halfway across when the first golem appeared ahead of him.

Grains of sand began to slowly vibrate against their neighbors and roll towards one spot, gaining speed as they went. What had once been a small pile of sand nominally brighter than its neighbors began to change, gaining definition and size with every moment. In mere seconds an enormous, vaguely humanoid figure stood there, patterns of sand swirling on its crude body.

It raised its arms to the sky and bellowed a primeval challenge.

 _A distraction – look, sand continues to fill the room. If you attempt to defeat it, you will have wasted precious time. If you tarry too long, you will be buried alive._

Harry nodded frantically, and began to veer left of the golem, hoping to avoid it entirely. But lumbering and clumsy though it might have been, the golem put on a surprisingly fast burst of speed to cut Harry off.

Really, he had little chance of outrunning it. He was still a child; his legs were short, and his physical condition rather poor.

But, unlike the golem, he had magic.

" _Ventas Servitas!"_ Harry screamed, his voice cracking on the last syllable.

The spell took, and hot, sulfuric winds screamed towards the oncoming golem. The golem slowed in its charge, primitive intelligence obviously not quite sure how to deal with the oncoming blast.

The blast hit the golem full on, blinding it and disrupting its corporeal form. While many wand-magic spells might not have had a great effect upon a being composed of infinite tiny grains of sand, the winds shredded through it like the blades of a blender.

The bottom half of the golem continue to stagger blindly in the same direction, already reforming its torso after the blast of air. It had done no real damage, but it had delayed the golem for a few precious seconds.

By that time, Harry was already past the golem and well on the way to the far door. It grew closer and closer, and Harry whooped in exhilaration, veins surging with adrenaline and perhaps something more.

He was so caught up in the moment that he did not notice the second golem directly behind him, did not notice as it reached out with a mighty arm and swiped at him. It caught him a glancing blow to the hip.

The unexpected impact sent Harry tumbling forwards across the rising sand. He didn't know what had happened, but his hip burned like it was on fire – pain such as he'd never felt before.

But then the pain was gone - not so much gone, perhaps, as irrelevant, far away, its significance forgotten. It was as though he was simply moving a puppet, and even though he knew that puppet was hurt, it did not matter to him.

Namshiel was already whispering to him, urging him to rally, to rise, and telling him what had happened.

Harry rolled to one side, just as an enormous, sandy fist smashed into the place he had been lying. The golem staggered, clearly thrown off-balance by missing the strike. Harry took that opportunity, that golden moment, and was off once more.

The doorway grew closer – ten meters, then five. Half of it had been obscured by the rising sands. But yet another golem was forming right in front of the entryway, obviously intent on blocking off any escape.

Then Harry's foot slipped on the treacherous sand and he fell forwards, just in front of the golem.

 _Roll forwards_ , Namshiel commanded, and Harry did so, turning his fall into a clumsy roll which carried him between the legs of the watchful golem, and through the safety of the door.

Harry lay there on his stomach, panting from the unaccustomed exertion.

"I," he gasped, "hate sand."

 _That was entirely too close for comfort_.

Harry wholeheartedly agreed.

After a short rest while he rid himself of every bit of sand he could, Harry began to trudge down the long hallway to the next chamber.

The next chamber proved to be so dark that he couldn't see anything at all. But as Harry stepped into it, light suddenly flooded the room to reveal an astonishing sight.

He was standing on the edge of a huge chessboard, carved from darkest granite and whitest marble. Rock dust was thick in the air, spiraling in mad eddies in the light from the torches.

The chessboard was a battlefield; chunks of stone littered the floor, their destroyed owners still on the squares where they had been destroyed. The white pieces had been utterly decimated – only the king, a bishop, and two pawns remained. A black rook held the king in check; the White Crown lay on the floor on an empty square.

"Safe?" Harry questioned Namshiel.

 _Had we been the first to enter, I suspect that we should have had to play our way through. Our predecessor, however, has been kind enough to clear the path for us. I sense no magic here, unlike the previous room. You may proceed, but do so cautiously._

The chess pieces did not stir as he crossed the board, and the door on the white side was open, so he supposed Namshiel had been correct in his suspicions.

Harry walked through that door and down the next passageway.

"What else do you suppose I can expect? Does this maze go on for much longer?"

 _So far_ , Namshiel began _,_ _each of the traps or barriers has corresponded to one of the instructors. The dog, that must've been Kettleburn's contribution._ _Sprout's, that was the Devil's Snare – Flitwick must've constructed that damnable sand trap– McGonagall transfigured the chessmen to make them alive – that leaves Quirrell's spell, and Snape's, neither of which are likely to be as difficult as the others."_

Harry nodded, took a deep breath and reached for the next door's handle, trying to push away thoughts of what might be on the other side.

A disgusting smell filled his nostrils, making Harry pull his robe up over his nose. Eyes watering, he saw, flat on the floor in front of them, an enormous troll, out cold with a bloody lump on its head.

 _Odd - he didn't kill it. Still, we can't have it waking up at the wrong moment_.

"No," Harry refused, "absolutely not. I'm not murdering it on the off-chance it might wake up. Injuring people is one thing; killing them is quite another."

A rather heated argument ensued. Namshiel won, of course.

 _It's not a human, Harry. This isn't even an actual, intelligent troll. It's a devolved subspecies of the Faerie trolls. And it's asleep; it won't even feel a thing._

The troll never stirred when its brains boiled forth from its ears, so Harry supposed that was true.

He pulled open the next door, but there was nothing very frightening in there, just a table with five differently shaped bottles standing on it in a line.

"Snape's," said Harry. "What do we have to do?"

He stepped over the threshold, and immediately a fire sprang up behind him in the doorway. It wasn't ordinary fire either; it was purple. At the same instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading onward.

Harry was trapped. He rather suspected the answer lay in the bottles, so he picked up the scroll lying next to them and read it.

Of course, the poetry was absolute tripe, and of no real help, for someone had already taken two of the five bottles.

 _What are you doing?_

"Trying to figure out how to get through the fire. You're not helping."

 _Don't take that tone with me, boy. You are wasting your time – no host of mine need fear fire. That is_ _ **my**_ _element._

Harry knew what he meant, and he began to gather his true-magic about him, as Namshiel had shown him so long ago, closing his eyes and balling his fists.

Then he stepped through the black flames in front of him.

* * *

He emerged on the other side unscathed, in the last chamber.

There was already someone there, and it was Quirrell.

"Ah," Harry said, clapping thrice. "Our very own Judas."

Honestly, he was quite surprised, though he didn't let it show. Quirrell, of all people? It wasn't so much that he was surprised that the man was inclined towards evil, it was that he was surprised Quirrell had managed to wreak such havoc with the traps.

 _The betrayal that is obvious is of no concern; it is the ones that you cannot see that are the most devastating,_ Namshiel whispered.

Harry supposed that was very true.

Quirrell smiled. His face wasn't twitching like it normally did. His robes were horribly singed on one side, most likely from one of the wards.

"Me," he said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter. It seemed . . . thematically appropriate, though Neville seemed to be the one more interested in the Stone. I'm afraid he thought Snape was trying to steal it, the poor dear. Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

"Not me, certainly," Harry shot back, mind racing to recall any mention of a magical stone.

 _So, that is why that puling child was asking us about Flamel_ , Namshiel said. _He must have suspected it was here; no doubt that oaf, Hagrid, accidentally let it slip_

"Honestly, Professor," Harry continued, "I didn't think you either strong or smart enough to get past those wards."

For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell's face.

"Sometimes," he said, "It is hard to follow my master's instructions - he is a great wizard and I am weak. The sacrifice required to get through the door was great, and -"

"You had additional aid. I suspected as much."

"He is with me wherever I go," said Quirrell quietly. "I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. He showed me how wrong I was. Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me."

Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me . . . decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me. The sacrifice was an atonement for my sins . . ."

"Your master made a poor choice, Professor. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. And you are so very _weak_."

Quirrell, eyes burning, responded by flicking his wand at Harry, binding him in thick ropes and gagging him. Harry did not try to resist.

Quirrell ran his hands along the mirror and stared at it for a long time before he spoke again.

"I don't understand . . . is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it? What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

And to Harry's curiosity, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell himself. Apparently, Harry wasn't the only one with an immaterial mentor. But whereas Namshiel's voice was warm and soothing, this one was high, cold, and thin.

Mocking Quirrell was one thing, Harry felt. Mocking this new voice was another. It demanded respect- respect and fear, and it promised a swift demise to those who failed to provide them.

Harry respected that voice as something more powerful than himself, more than an equal.

"Use the boy . . . Use the boy . . ."

Quirrell rounded on Harry.

"Yes - Potter - come here."

He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry fell off. Harry got slowly to his feet.

"Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

He honestly had no idea why the other man thought it was a good idea to remove the ropes from an enemy and then ask that enemy to come within melee range.

Perhaps, Harry decided, that Quirrell, as a wizard, hadn't ever dealt with much in the way of physical weapons.

Unfortunately, Harry had neither the training, weapon, or inclination to strike Quirrell, so he obeyed.

Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror, and opened them again.

The mirror was dark, at first. It quickly grew quite bright, though, as it depicted a burning wasteland. In the foreground, a fortress of black ice, an enormous, shadowy cube sat high up on the slope of the highest mountain in sight. Clearly, it had once been both functional and hauntingly beautiful.

It was no longer so. The ice had melted horribly, and a great lake of ice-water had gathered about the pathetic remnants of the fortress. Innumerable black dots swarmed around the melting outer walls.

A single, elegant spire rose above the rest of the ruined structure. Flickers of green and amethyst energy raced frantically about within the ice of the tower. As Harry watched, that tower slowly toppled over, as though neatly broken off by an invisible hand.

Then a firestorm rose to consume the image, and Harry had to shield his eyes for fear of being blinded. He cautiously moved his hand away when a sudden darkness blocked some of the light.

A shadow was growing far back in the flames, and its presence sent ripples of some nameless fear through Harry. It moved forwards with a swift, confident sureness, and it grew as it approached.

When it drew close enough to see its face, Harry almost went into cardiac arrest.

It was him, or at least some being wearing his features. He was . . . different.

Not-Harry was wearing a swanky, dark leather trench coat, unfastened at the waist, and decorated with tiny silver skull buttons. A slight breeze caught the edges of it as he went, whipping it up behind him. It was darkly impressive.

As Harry watched, the double drew forth a wand and began twirling it casually between its fingers. It stopped when he was sure it would break free of the confines of the mirror.

Then it winked at him, smiling.

It was a wonderful, artless smile that made him look like a harmless lad that didn't know the first thing about magic or violence or killing. The smile went all the way up to Not-Harry's eyes, which shone with a sickly inner light. But it didn't stop there. Oh, no _._ A _second_ _set_ of eyes slowly opened on his forehead, as though waking from a long sleep, and these shone a green far brighter and more malignant than his own. Behind them lurked an ancient malice of indescribable power and infinite knowledge.

They blinked twice, and a glowing green sigil formed in the middle of his forehead, right in the center of his four eyes. It looked something like a circle within a four-pointed sun.

Or a stylized Crown of Thorns.

It reached out a hand to him, shadow obscuring the rest of its form, and he tried to take it, only for Quirrell to shake him roughly.

The entrancing, thrilling vision disappeared, leaving a blank mirror behind.

"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What did you see?"

There was a brief pause while Harry considered his options.

"Fire," he finally said. "I saw fire."

Quirrell thrust Harry from him, snarling in disgust, and went back to inspecting the mirror.

Harry began edging back towards the door. For all his bravado, he wasn't certain that he could defeat a full-grown wizard in a fight, especially given the chilling voice that emanated from him.

Defeat was out of question with the voice, and survival unlikely.

"He lies!" screamed Quirrell's other voice. "He lies! He must lie!"

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted, whirling back to Harry. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

The high voice spoke again.

"Let me speak to him . . . face-to-face . . ."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough . . . for this . . ."

Harry watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.

Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter . . ." it whispered.

Harry knew who it was.

"Lord Voldemort," he whispered, trying to put even more distance between him and Quirrell. Quirrell, if he had taken the teacher by surprise, he might – _might_ \- have been able to incapacitate.

But Voldemort? The man would crush him like a gnat.

"See what I have become?" the face wheezed. "Mere shadow and vapor . . . I have form only when I can share another's body . . . but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds . . . Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks . . . and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own. Now . . . why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

"I swear to you upon my magic that I do not have the Philosopher's Stone," Harry declared, hands fidgeting behind his back. He had to be careful here, so very careful. Even with Namshiel's advice, there was all too great a possibility that this conversation could end in death.

"Lying in the face of certain death?" it hissed. "You know what it is; you must have it, for how else would you know? You are very brave to lie to Lord Voldemort, child; I always value bravery. You are much like your parents, in that regard."

Harry's eyes widened, and Voldemort let out a long, cold, cruel laugh.

"Yes, boy, your parents were brave. I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight. And your mother . . . well, you need only look at your scar to tell you that."

"Tell me, Harry," the face coughed, "would you like to see your mother and father again? Together we can bring them back. All I ask is for something in return. Together we'll do extraordinary things. All that I require is one small Stone; you need not die here, alone."

Harry looked up at that terrible, contorted, and altogether unnatural face – the face of the man who had killed his parents, and terrorized Magical Britain for nearly a decade.

And he smiled.

"Alone," he all but purred. "Do you think I am alone?"

* * *

 _Props to thepkrmgc for his realization about the inspiration for the Harry and Hermione scene. I encourage readers to look for little cameos or references like that – I intentionally add them for that very reason._

 _I know that Hermione's paralysis created a little bit of controversy. While wizards are canonically capable of curing almost any Muggle disease or ailment, I believe that major injuries related to the central nervous system are largely beyond their ability to mend._

 _As for phoenix tears – well, Phoenixes in this world are a little different than in canon, and I'm not going to say anything more on that until the end of Second Year._

 _Apologies for the massive chapter, but there didn't seem to be enough content in each to publish them separately._ _Because this one was so long, the next chapter finishes the first year. After that, there will be a month long hiatus while I desperately try to write all of Second Year and the remake of Age of Aberration – Paradise Lost._


	9. Chapter 8: Duel of the Fates

Chapter VII: Duel of the Fates

Soft footsteps echoed behind Harry, and he heard the whisper of robes sweeping along the stone floor. Harry looked up and over his shoulder into Professor Dumbledore's long white beard.

A gnarled hand fell onto his shoulder, both warm and reassuring, and squeezed once.

"I believe," Dumbledore said softly, "that you should get behind me, Harry. I fear that this must escalate to violence, and I do not want you in the middle of it."

Harry obeyed immediately, ducking behind one of the pillars. This was a duel of titans, of the gods – mortals like him could be crushed underfoot. He didn't fancy being squashed like a bug.

"Dumbledore," Quirrell breathed, raising his wand. "How?"

"With Tom's aid, you may have been able to destroy my charms on that door, Quirinus, but you made the mistake of leaving a few of them intact (albeit in some form of stasis). Harry here was able to partially destroy your stasis on one of the lesser charms – an alarm charm. The charm fired as soon as it worked itself free of the remnants of your spell, and I arrived just as Mr. Potter informed you he had no Stone. He was not lying – I and I alone know its true location."

Voldemort's face screamed, a horrible noise like a boiling teakettle, and Quirrell flinched.

"Fool!" the face cried. "Insipid, useless fool! You assured me that the Stone was here!"

"Master," Quirrell whimpered, clutching at his skull, "I promise you, I thought it was!"

"Quirinus," Dumbledore called, advancing to stand at the top of the stairs. "Quirinus!"

Quirrell's head whipped around to look at Dumbledore. Harry was sure that he could see fear in his erstwhile teacher's eyes.

"Quirinus, you cannot hope to win this fight. You must know this. Tom himself, were he here in the flesh, might be able to cast me down, but you are not he. You are a very skilled wizard, Quirinus, in magical theory – one of the most brilliant minds to have come out of Hogwarts in many generations. But you are also very young, and your talents do not lie in the arts of violence. I ask you now: will you not turn aside from this dark path you have chosen?"

"But I can! I know I can, with the aid of the Master!" Quirrell screamed, apparently no longer in full command of his faculties. " _Reducto!"_

The spell never reached Dumbledore; a piece of the floor detached itself and sprang in front of the curse, exploding into a million tiny pieces on impact.

"You are quite wrong," Dumbledore said, speaking as lightly as though they were discussing the matter over drinks. "I ask you again, Quirinus – I beg you – do not do this. You can still come back from what you've become."

"Never!" spat Quirrell, spittle flying from his mouth, and an insane gleam in his eye. "Never!"

Quirrell fired off a barrage of spells at Dumbledore, and Dumbledore responded in kind. Jets of light flew from both wands, the floor around their feet became hot and cracked; such was the power on display that day. Harry felt breathless, excited, to see the great wizard in battle.

Finally, though, Dumbledore gained a decisive advantage through the use of a mighty spell that Harry had never even heard of. He had flicked his own wand once, with a little curling gesture: the force of the spell that emanated from it was such that Harry, though shielded by the stone pillar, felt his hair stand on end as it passed and Quirrell-Voldemort was forced to dive desperately to one side in order to avoid it.

The spell, whatever it was, impacted with the stone wall behind Quirrell, and caused no visible damage to the shield. A deep, gong-like note reverberated from the impact - an oddly chilling sound.

"You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?" called Voldemort from behind Quirrell's head. "Are you above such brutality?"

"We both know that I am not, Tom," Dumbledore said with a faint hint of sadness, continuing to walk towards Quirrell as though he had not a fear in the world, as though nothing had happened to interrupt his stroll up the hall. "If it were you standing before me, I would not have hesitated. But the good man you have ensnared with your lies – he may still be saved."

Quirrell raised his wand once more, and Dumbledore assumed a ready position.

To Harry's great surprise, however, Quirrell suddenly reversed his wand and tapped himself twice on either ear, and then once on his throat.

But Dumbledore, though his eyes widened, did not seem to have been caught off guard by this unexpected move. While Quirrell finished whatever he was doing, Dumbledore held his wand up in front of him, and a smoky grey shield materialized, dividing the room.

The room behind the shield suddenly went very, very quiet. The only things Harry could hear were his own breath whistling in and out of his lungs and the beating of his heart as it pushed blood through his veins.

Come to think of it, Harry realized, he wasn't even hearing those sounds. He was feeling the vibrations they sent through his body.

On the other side of the barrier, Harry saw a strangely distorted Quirrell open his mouth impossibly wide, his eyes bulging and throat pulsing. Harry supposed that Quirrell was screaming, but Harry could not hear him. Strange puffs of air and dust appeared in concentric rings in front and to the sides of Quirrell's gaping maw.

Dumbledore made a queer, sweeping gesture with his free hand, and suddenly Quirrell was no longer standing on solid stone, but on a thin layer of slippery oil. He slipped on the treacherous surface and nearly fell over, only managing to catch himself at the last minute.

Quirrell's opponent dropped the shield and moved towards him with a stately, unhurried pace.

"Kill him!" Voldemort commanded from behind Quirrell's head. "Kill him, you fool!"

" _Bombarda Maxima!"_ Quirrell screamed in a vain attempt to slow Dumbledore's progress. His opponent merely sliced the air in front of him with his wand and dispelled the oncoming curse. Then it was his turn to take the offensive.

Dumbledore clapped his hands together above his head, his wand clutched tightly between them. Behind him, the flames that had sealed off the room coalesced, taking on the shape of a mighty bird.

Dumbledore drove his wand forwards, and the flame-creature followed his movements, rocketing forwards almost too quickly to see. Quirrell was moving his lips, desperately trying some sort of incantation, but Harry couldn't see if he managed to pull it off before the fiery phoenix struck him and exploded with the force of a small bomb, setting fire to the oily floor.

Harry curled into a ball in an attempt to avoid the backrush of flame and force he knew would be coming, but he need not have bothered. Dumbledore had already cast some sort of shimmering indigo shield, his brow furrowed in concentration. The blast ricocheted off of it and was sent right back at Quirrell.

Dumbledore maintained the spell until the wave slowed and expended itself, then dropped the shield and waved the obscuring smoke away.

Quirrell too had survived, though only just. His back was pressed to the mirror, and in his face was the desperation of a cornered animal. He spat some spell and thrust his wand towards the smoke that lingered in the corners of the room, which flowed up and around his ankles. In the blink of an eye, the Professor was gone, and an enormous armored troll of opaque smoke stood where he had been.

The troll began to bring one enormous fist down upon Dumbledore, but at the same moment, Dumbledore brandished his wand in one long, fluid motion.

The Mirror that dominated the center of the room shimmered and crawled with bright silver light, reflected off the rippling surface of the mirror as it melted at an exaggerated speed. As soon as segments became liquid, they flowed over the flagstones towards the troll.

The troll's fist was within mere inches of Dumbledore's crooked nose before it encountered unexpected resistance.

A paper-thin barrier of molten glass and silver stopped the blow cold, bowing only slightly beneath the incredible force of the troll's punch.

Most devolved trolls would have stood there at that point, stunned, their puny intellects unable to process the information quickly enough to form an immediate response. But this was not a living troll; it was a magical construct, animated and sustained by magic. It merely followed through with the other fist, this time aiming over the shield.

This time, though, Dumbledore's mirror didn't create a shield. Instead, the liquid mass darted at the troll's feet and began climbing up its legs, forming a hard, thin shell around it. Soon the troll was visible only as a dark, rippling, faceless figure, shimmering and indistinct behind the coating, clearly struggling to throw off the suffocating mass.

The mirror crept up and over the top of the troll's head, and completely engulfed it. Dumbledore snapped his fingers twice and the struggling mass began to contract slowly but steadily into a globe the size of a Bludger.

Dumbledore leaned over to do something to the glass ball, and that was when Harry noticed the rough stone behind him shimmering oddly. Then the air behind him rippled, and he fancied he saw the shape of a man.

Then a hand holding a wand appeared in midair, and then part of the forearm. It was as if a man were stepping through a hole in reality.

Harry screamed a warning, and Dumbledore spun about to face his attacker.

The Disillusionment Charm faded as Quirrell raised his wand and a jet of green light streaked at Dumbledore, who turned and was gone in a whirling of his cloak. Next second, he had reappeared behind Quirrell, drawn back his wand and waved it as though brandishing a whip. Quirrell's legs were struck from under him and he fell to the ground.

"For the last time," Dumbledore said, his face becoming bedrock granite and his voice growing stern and magnificent, "will you not repent, Quirinus Quirrell?"

Eyes brimming with malice, Quirrell spat at him.

The old man's face fell, and his shoulders slumped.

"It was too much to hope for, I suppose, that I might save even one," Harry thought he heard the Headmaster say. "I am truly sorry for this, Quirinus, but you have brought it upon yourself."

Dumbledore raised his wand in preparation for the final blow, and Quirrell turned his face to one side.

Thus it was that, in those last moments, Voldemort's parasitic face was turned in Harry Potter's direction, and red eyes met green.

A spark ignited in Voldemort's eyes, and his already horrid face twisted in hatred. The emotion gave new life and purpose to the shell of the man he possessed.

Time seemed to slow as Quirrell desperately tried to twist out of the path of Dumbledore's spell. He was partially successful, losing only his right arm to whatever mighty spell Dumbledore had thrown at him.

Then Quirrell was up and running, running despite what must have been horrible pain, and he was headed directly for Harry. The Professor was very quick; Fear lent him wings, and he was standing right before Harry in an instant.

"If I must lose this battle and this pawn, then you will lose Harry Potter!" Voldemort screeched to Dumbledore. Pain laced his voice, making it shrill. Agony contorted the lines of his body, veins standing out sharply against straining muscle.

Dumbledore's eyes widened and he too began to move towards Harry, apparently intending to throw himself in front of whatever spell Quirrell-Voldemort was about to cast. He was too slow, though, for Quirrell had already raised his hand to perform a deadly curse.

Harry desperately grabbed Quirrell's wrists to stop him, to prevent him from casting a spell. At once, a needle-sharp pain seared across Harry's scar; his head felt as though it was about to split in two; he yelled, struggling with all his might, struggling to hold Quirrell's wrists still.

Harry's scar was almost blinding him with pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony. Quirrell's wrists were blistering before his eyes, the skin turning raw, red, and shiny. Painful, though not fatal.

But then Harry heard Namshiel give a bellow of fury in his mind, the words thundering in his head.

 **GET. OUT.**

Suddenly the pain was gone. His touch was still burning Quirrell, but now he could think clearly.

 _The throat!_ Namshiel was ordering him. _Go for his throat!_

Namshiel had to be obeyed, and so Harry's hands left Quirrell's wrists, grabbed madly for the Professor's skinny throat, and he found it. His child's hands couldn't wrap all the way around the man's neck, but they didn't need to.

As soon as Harry's hands had closed on Quirrell's neck, he felt Namshiel rising up in his mind, looking out through his eyes.

Then Harry's hands, which had before only scalded Quirrell's wrists, were sheathed in a dark fire that burned away everything they touched. Quirrell's neck crumbled to ashes beneath his grasp, blood turning into steam.

Then the man's agonized face was moving away as his head fell from his body. Quirrell wasn't the only one falling, though; Harry could feel himself falling too, and fell into blackness, down. . . down. . . down. . .

* * *

 _Awaken_ , came the call. It demanded his obedience, so he obeyed, drifting up from the slow, languid currents of the Lethe. Gentle breezes bore him up towards a bright, white light, and when he touched it, it expanded to cover his entire world.

He opened his eyes to see still more white brightness and there was a clean, antiseptic smell in the air. He blinked rapidly, and the light resolved into a fuzzy image of the Infirmary. No-one else appeared to be present, but he could hear voices coming from outside the room.

"- tend to agree with Mr. Malfoy here, Headmaster Dumbledore. Long have you discharged the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts with honor and distinction. But, your inability to safeguard my clients' nephew was a colossal failure – one made all the worse by the fact that you (intentionally or otherwise) allowed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to enter Hogwarts," came a monotone voice that Harry recognized as that of his most faithful servant.

"I assure you," replied Dumbledore's steady voice, "drawing Lord Voldemort here was never my intention. I have a duty to keep these children safe insofar as I am able. Nicholas and I simply decided that a certain object was no longer safe at Gringotts (for several different reasons besides Voldemort, mind you). Every possible precaution was taken, and I had no reason to believe that he would dare to attempt to steal it. Even at the height of his power, he never dared to try and enter Hogwarts while I was present. There was little reason to believe that he would attempt to do so when he was little more than a wraith."

Harry rubbed his eyes grumpily. The bright light was causing an ache behind his eyes.

"Be that as it may, my charge nonetheless suffered considerable trauma as a result of your negligence, as we just saw."

"Negligence, Mr. Jeeves, would have been a failure to use reasonable care in the placement and the guarding of the object. Curfews were instrumented to keep students away from the area after hours, and mighty enchantments placed around the area to make sure that they did not find the door. Harry, insofar as I am aware, was only able to see it because he chanced to pass by the door when he _ought_ to have been in bed, after Voldemort had torn through the spellwork. No other students were harmed."

Harry had a horrible, sinking feeling that Dumbledore knew that Harry was both awake and listening in on the conversation, and that this was the old sage's means of gently rebuking him.

"Yet the boy was still injured, under your watch," pointed out a third voice, tinged with a distinctly upper-crust accent. "When one adds that to the incident earlier this year . . . why, it shouldn't surprise me if the good barrister here didn't urge Potter's guardians to withdraw him from the school."

"I must admit," said Jeeves, "that the thought had crossed my mind. However, I eventually came to the conclusion that Professor Dumbledore - although rather careless in his choice to bring the 'object' to Hogwarts – nevertheless did his best to shield his charges from any attempt at stealing it. His timely intervention did save Mr. Potter's life, and I believe it unfair to blame him for the unfortunate affair with the troll. The blame for that could most likely be laid at the feet of the late Professor Quirrell . . ."

 _The_ late _Professor Quirrell?_ Harry wondered, and then the events surrounding the previous night came rushing back to him, drowning out a sour reply from the third voice.

 _Quirrell screaming in exquisite agony . . . falling backwards, his face frozen in a rictus of pain and terror, ash scattering from his carbonized neck. The taint continued to spread across the Professor's bifurcated corpse, turning it into grey ash._

"Ashes to ashes," Namshiel said, sitting on the sheets next to Harry. Harry absently noticed that he didn't wrinkle the crisp linen. "Dust to dust.

"I killed Professor Quirrell," Harry said, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. He began to tremble uncontrollably.

"Yes. The first of many."

"I killed a man with my own hands."

His blood was thundering in his ears, and his pulse was racing.

"Yes," answered Namshiel. "You did. It was well done. I am very pleased with you, my child."

"I killed someone," Harry said. He could feel the blood draining from his face. "I killed someone."

Then he sat up and was sick over the side of the bed.

After he had emptied his stomach, he suddenly sat down hard on the ground and began shivering. The ache in his head had become overwhelming, and he wasn't happy with his body's reaction to learning that he had killed Quirrell. He was _better_ than that. He was in control.

 _Control,_ he thought. _Breathe. In, out. In, out._

Repeating that mantra to himself seem to help. It took a long time, though, before he regained any semblance of control over his stomach, before his pulse and breathing slowed, and his shivering became less severe.

Even then he was deeply troubled. That horrified look in Quirrell's eyes, that look of terror when confronted with the onrushing void – it still haunted him.

He hadn't meant to kill; he hadn't _ever_ really meant to kill. Even with the Bludger, he had simply planned on teaching Snape a lesson. But he had thought himself prepared to kill, thought that it would be easy when the moment came.

He had been right – from a certain point of view. Killing Quirrell _had_ been easy. It was what came afterwards that was difficult to deal with.

Harry closed his eyes in a vain attempt to block out the images of Quirrell's final moments. But he saw them anyway – Quirrell's empty eyes, his slack face.

In those eyes, he fancied he saw unending darkness, hemming in a green sky bearing down upon a red field.

He saw Oblivion, and he was frightened at that prospect of emptiness, of judgement. He did not want to face the realization that he was a passing, ephemeral thing in a cold and merciless universe.

"You are frightened."

"Yes," Harry whispered. "Yes."

"Then fear not," Namshiel said, "for I am with ye."

At that, a strange numbness stole over him. He felt . . . nothing. It was like he was separated from his emotions by a thick quilt. Whatever Namshiel had done, it had soothed his fears, quieted any guilt he felt.

It did not stop him from thinking about death, though. It merely stopped his visceral reaction to doing so. And so he continued to fret long into the night.

"He was weak. You were not. He defied us, and he paid the price," Namshiel whispered eventually. "You are always in the right, Harry, so long as you act in accordance with my will. Thus it is ordained . . ."

Namshiel's dark, twisted whispers bent the situation, twisted the morality of it. Really, Harry did not know, and he decided he did not care. He was Namshiel's host, and that was all that mattered. There was no going back; neither did he wish to.

"That's not what's wrong!" Harry snapped suddenly. "I don't care about Quirrell – I care about what he showed me."

"And what, pray tell, is that?"

"Death," Harry said softly as he let himself fall back against his pillows. "Emptiness. _Nothing_. I don't want to die, Namshiel. I don't want to. But I must, no matter how much I fight against it, no matter how much I struggle."

To his extreme irritation, Namshiel actually chuckled at him. Could his mentor not see how upset he was?

"Oh, Harry," he said, that rich laughter bubbling from his lips. "My dear boy. It is not death that most people should fear – it is what comes after."

"Most people? Who should not?"

"You."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, leaning forwards. Namshiel thought _he_ shouldn't fear? Preposterous – he did fear death, as he feared nothing else. How should Namshiel know, anyways?

"Because you are _my_ host, Harry. You never need fear it," Namshiel's words drifted over his shoulder. "You will never die, Harry, so long as I am with you. Old age cannot touch you. Time cannot wither you. I have made you so – eternal."

"Eternal?" Harry whispered, turning wet eyes towards his mentor. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say. You. Cannot. Die. You are forever, unless blade or magic takes your life."

"How?"

"How?" echoed Namshiel. "How? If you truly desire to know, I shall tell you: whosoever bears my Coin shall not perish but have eternal life. It is thus for all of us, Harry, for all of your brethren – the Knights of the Blackened Denarius."

"There are more?" Harry asked, realization dawning on him. "More Coins?"

"Oh, yes. There are thirty of us. Thirty pieces of silver."

"Who is 'us'?"

"That is, I think, a question for another time, and perhaps another person altogether. Inquire it of Nicodemus when you next meet him, which may be sooner than you think."

Harry quieted at that. He couldn't wrap his mind around the enormity of what Namshiel had just told him.

He, Harry Potter, was immortal.

It was . . . strange to think of. He had always rushed to do things, because it was best to get them done in a timely fashion. But really, that was only because he was somehow subconsciously aware of his death. Now that he was no longer governed by that constraint . . .

"It does become different. Now you plan in the centuries, reap the fruits of millennia. You are no longer subject to the single most potent force behind human action."

"But I'm still human," Harry clarified. "You said that I can still be killed."

"For now. In strange aeons, even Death may die, or you may find a way to forever avoid his clutches."

"Is that possible?"

"It is," Namshiel said slowly. "It is, but it would take a very long time. Years. And a mastery of magic beyond any now present on this earth. With magic, Harry, anything is possible."

"So Voldemort wasn't lying, then, when he said that I could see my mother and father again?"

There was a long silence while Namshiel appeared to think that over. Harry couldn't remember him ever taking so long to answer.

"No," he replied at length, "he was not. It would take power and knowledge beyond reckoning, but such a thing is possible, yes. They might not be the same, or depending upon the circumstances of their demise, able to be resurrected, but it might yet be done. Another way is more certain, but we shall not go down that path. The price is too steep, and the entities to b dealt with too dangerous."

"Can you show me how?

"No," Namshiel said curtly. "I have little skill in such things. Mastery of such magic was the sole province of one wizard, and he could not teach you."

"Why not?" Harry asked.

"Because he is dead. Ironically, he could save others from death – but not himself. It is possible that, were I to acquire his knowledge, together we could bring back your parents. But there would be conditions, Harry. There are things I also wish to see done, things, things that I need your aid to do."

"Of course," Harry agreed. That only seemed fair. Besides, if Namshiel wanted it, it would benefit him too. "What kind of things?"

"I have friends I need to see, and other friends that need some aid. There is also one _very_ special woman that I must attend to."

Harry made a face. Adults. Eucchh.

"Is she your wife?"

"Oh, no. Quite the opposite."

"Who is she?" Harry asked, rather curiously. He couldn't remember Namshiel ever mentioning a daughter, or a sister, or an aunt. Add to that how old Harry suspected his mentor was, and he really had no idea to whom Namshiel could be referring.

"She," Namshiel said very softly, eyes burning, "calls herself Mab."

* * *

Dumbledore decided to visit Harry several days after the incident, presumably in order to give him time to recover.

Harry was squinting down at a Potions text from the library when Dumbledore entered, along with the two voices from the day before – Jeeves, and a blonde man that Harry assumed was Lucius Malfoy. Draco certainly took after his father, and his father didn't look happy.

In that vein, Dumbledore looked rather pleased and Jeeves looked indifferent. Harry guessed that they had formed an alliance of some sort against Malfoy, though he could not guess as to why.

"Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore, peering over his spectacles. Harry wondered if he actually needed them or used them for decoration.

"Hello, Professor," Harry chirped, doing his best to act like normal children did. "Hello, Jeeves."

Namshiel made a disapproving noise in Harry's ear, and Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. Jeeves looked indifferent.

"You already know Mr. Jeeves?"

Harry inwardly cringed. He'd bungled that, and badly. He was fairly sure that a displeased Namshiel wouldn't help him talk his way out of it, so he'd have to salvage the situation himself.

"Oh, yes," Harry said brightly. "He's a friend of a friend of Uncle Vernon's. He works for their company, I think. Uncle Vernon works for Grunnings."

"Indeed?" asked Dumbledore, eyes returning to their normal size. "You are a man of many talents, Mr. Jeeves. Few wizards would think working with Muggles, especially in a legal capacity, a satisfying occupation."

"Not quite a wizard, I'm afraid, sir. Merely a Squib. I've always found Muggle legal systems to be of greatest interest. So many complexities, yet somehow . . . _cleaner_ than ours."

Lucius Malfoy's pointy face twisted into a particularly ugly expression, but Dumbledore didn't seem to notice. Harry was not impressed by Malfoy's lack of self-control.

 _Rich indeed, coming from a child who just made a very dangerous misstep._

"How long have I been in here?" Harry asked Dumbledore, preventing him from further cross-examining Jeeves.

"Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved you have come 'round; they have been extremely worried. What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so I've put it out that you caught Dragon Pox."

"Isn't that normally fatal?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore, "and your condition after being attacked by Professor Quirrell was very nearly so."

"What exactly happened, sir? My memory isn't very clear . . ."

Dumbledore opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He turned around to Jeeves and Malfoy.

"If you wouldn't mind, gentlemen, I would like to have a word with Mr. Potter in private."

Harry nodded at Jeeves, and his manservant readily agreed to Dumbledore's request. Malfoy protested at first, but a few words from Dumbledore and a hard stare from Jeeves sent him packing.

Dumbledore sat himself comfortably next to Harry's bed, and began to relate the events of three days ago.

Namshiel had already told him what happened, of course, so Harry thought Dumbledore's beliefs about Quirrell's demise greatly amusing. Yes, it had been the ward that killed him, but a twisted, perverted version of it, backed by the power of Hellfire. Hate and love were, after all, different sides of the same . . . Coin.

Goodness was not involved.

He was curious about one thing, though.

"How is Voldemort still alive, sir? After a spell rebounding on him when he tried to kill me, and after the other night?"

"A good question," Dumbledore said, rising, "but one for another time."

Harry couldn't profess to be surprised by that response.

"You were the one to send me the Invisibility Cloak," Harry said as Dumbledore turned around. It was not a question.

"Ah, yes - your father happened to leave it in my possession, and I thought you might like it." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Useful things. . . your father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens to steal food when he was here. Spent an entire day underneath it once, hiding from your mother. I don't know how he managed it – I always thought it must have been suffocating underneath it."

"No, it's actually been rather chilly when I've tried it. Then again, that was just after you sent it to me at Christmas."

Dumbledore paused once more on his way out.

"Oh, and Harry?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Professor McGonagall informs me that you've been having a spot of trouble with Transfiguration. If you'll take some advice from an old man, will has something to do with magic. It is neither the greatest factor, nor the least, but it nonetheless is one. You cannot make bricks without straw."

Dumbledore left Harry to mull that over, and let Malfoy and Jeeves back in as he exited.

Malfoy immediately swept over to Harry and extended his free hand. Harry took it and shook it once, careful to use the hand that didn't have the Coin in it.

"Mr. Potter! Lucius Malfoy. We meet at last."

"A pleasure, Mr. Malfoy," Harry said neutrally. He didn't know much about Draco's father, or Namshiel's history with them. Jeeves seemed to be content to stand at rigid attention by the door, so Harry assumed it was alright to talk to this man.

"Forgive me," Malfoy continued, raising a staff to Harry's forehead. Harry tensed despite himself, but Malfoy only brushed his hair aside to reveal his lightning scar.

"Your scar is legend. As of course, is the wizard who gave it to you."

"Quite so," Harry said. He was finding that he liked little about Malfoy Senior; to praise the man who killed his parents in his presence . . .

"And as for the boy who bears it . . . why, he is the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear. How do you find Hogwarts, Mr. Potter?"

"Boring," Harry answered quite honestly, trying not to fantasize about strangling the man with his own hair. "I find few things here suit me."

"Indeed? What things might suit you?"

Harry was still smarting from his earlier misstep with Dumbledore, and he wasn't about to answer that.

"Oh, this and that," he said, making eye contact with Jeeves. His butler nodded, and then advanced to stand next to Malfoy at the side of the bed.

"We appreciate your help in this, Mr. Malfoy, and our gratitude is not to be underestimated."

"It was my duty as a member of the Board of Governors," Malfoy said piously, "to investigate any severe harm done to a student – let alone one of such reputation. It does concern me, though, to learn that Mr. Potter's legal representative associates with Muggles – as a hired hand, no less."

"Nevertheless, my Lord Aculeus wished to give you a token of his appreciation. You shall find it in your library."

"My library? That is quite impossible. The wards on my estate-"

"Mean nothing to my master. You shall find it occupying the space next to your copy of _Magick Moste Evile_ , on the third shelf of the bookcase in the alcove."

Malfoy paled and hurriedly excused himself.

 _Good man, Jeeves_ , Harry thought. _Any longer spent in Mr. Malfoy's presence, and I might well have done something that I would regret. Eventually._

Jeeves shook his grey head in the departing man's direction, and then said something to Harry.

Unfortunately, it was in no language Harry had ever heard. To him, it sounded like a lot of gibberish.

 _That was a request for me to translate_ , Namshiel told Harry. _We are not alone – Malfoy waits behind the door, and this is a language that he most assuredly does not speak._

 _What language is it?_

 _An ancient one, spoken by the first civilization in southern Mesopotamia. Now, hearken to Mr. Jeeves._

Harry returned his attention to Jeeves, and Namshiel somehow translated the words between his ear and mind, because all Harry heard was English. It was very tidy.

"-foy is lurking behind the door, sir, in an incredible breach of protocol."

"I don't care for him," Harry decided, speaking in the same tongue. "He's a snake."

"But of course, sir. He was a Slytherin, just like his son. And his _fanaticism_ about pureblood supremacy is a liability. If my lord decides to cater to that political belief, then so be it, but so far, such a venture suggests a minimal return on capital. He is not to be trusted; he resents the fact that we refused to support any effort to remove Dumbledore as headmaster."

"We are more than a match for him," Harry proclaimed. "Especially after Quirrell."

Malfoy was a large fish in a very small pond. If he bothered him, Harry would be only too happy to disabuse him of his delusions of grandeur.

"My lord has spoken to you, then?"

"Yes," said Harry, "and my resolve has never been stronger."

"That is most excellent, young master. But returning to the subject of Lucius Malfoy: my lord has never had direct dealings with this Malfoy. He worked closely with his father, Abraxas, though, and so Lucius is, or was, _interested_ enough when I called on him to get me access to Hogwarts to assess your condition. Unlike his father, however, he does not understand exactly what he is dealing with. I am unsure if he will show proper deference and obedience as his ancestors have."

 _Political and leverage and material bribery are irrelevant,_ Namshiel told Harry. Both he and Namshiel both agreed on that _. If he becomes too much of a threat, we have the means to force him to back down._

Harry plucked a long strand of white-blonde hair from his sleeve, and regarded it intently.

"Don't fret, Jeeves. There is no protection against that which one cannot possibly anticipate."

* * *

The ride back to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was uneventful, but Harry did get to meet Ron's family at the station. Mr. Jeeves had accompanied them from Hogwarts, ostensibly to ensure that Harry was indeed fully recovered.

He, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway together, Harry pushing Hermione's chair, and were greeted with a high-pitched squeal when they emerged.

It was Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister, but she wasn't pointing at Ron.

"Harry Potter!" she squealed. "Look, Mom! I can see his scar!"

"Be quiet, Ginny, and it's rude to point."

Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them.

"Busy year?" she said.

"Very," said Harry. "Thanks for the fudge and the sweater, Mrs. Weasley."

"Oh, it was nothing, dear," she tossed over her shoulder as she hurried over to Fred and George, who appeared to be trying to discreetly smuggle something off of the train. The ensuing antics were enough to keep Harry occupied for the next several minutes,

"You must come and stay this summer," said Ron, "both of you - I'll send you an owl."

"I don't know, Ron," Harry said, looking at Jeeves, who was hovering at his shoulder. "I think I'll be rather busy this summer. Thank you for the invitation, though – I'll certainly try to come if I can."

"Harry, dear," said Mrs. Weasley, bustling up, "is your family here, dear? We'd be more than happy to wait for them with you."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Weasley – they're right over there," Harry said, pointing at a far corner of the station.

An odd little couple stood there, distinguished from the crowd by virtue of some vague, undefinable quality.

A young woman lounged against a column. She had long, dark hair, dark eyes, and a face a little too lean to be conventionally pretty. She looked rather miffed at having to be there.

"Hope you have a good holiday," said Hermione, reaching up to hug Harry around his middle.

"Oh, I will," said Harry, and they were surprised at the grin that was spreading over his face as he looked at the last member of his little family.

He wore a tan trench coat, casually open. His clothes were tailor-fit to him and looked expensive. A slender grey tie hung loosely around his throat. He was a man of medium height and build, with short, dark hair streaked through with an off-center blaze of silver. His expression was mild, amused, and his dark eyes were half-closed and sleepy-looking.

Nicodemus Archleone rolled his eyes at Harry, and made a rolling "move this along" gesture with his left hand.

"Well," said Harry, "that's my cue to leave."

Summer was going to be _so_ much fun.

* * *

 **Now we begin to spend some significant time outside of Hogwarts to set up the Dresden Files subarc. For those wondering, yes, the Potter and Dresden arcs will culminate at the same time.**

 **Also . . . Namshiel has a long memory. A _very_ long memory, and the grudges to match.**


	10. 9: Order of the Blackened Denarius

Chapter IX: Order of the Blackened Denarius

Harry had half expected that Nicodemus would return him to Privet Drive for the summer. He hadn't, of course, for which Harry was extremely grateful. The Dursleys might not have dared treat him poorly, but he still did not care for their company.

Instead, after they left Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, they drove for a several hours. Harry had no idea where they were going. The Dursleys hadn't taken him many places outside of Little Whinging, but even he thought it was odd when they turned around and went back the way they came several times.

He tried dozing off, but he was invariably woken up whenever they hit a rough patch of road.

Jeeves was sitting up front with the driver, so Harry didn't know what he was doing. Nicodemus appeared to be sleeping, but that was belied by the various emotions that quickly flickered across his face.

The girl – Harry didn't know her name – never slept, preferring to gaze out the windows.

 _What's happening?_ He inquired of Namshiel. _Why is it taking so long_. _Is the driver lost?_

 _No. This is an attempt to throw off anyone who might be following us. It wouldn't do for people to be spying on us, now, would it?_

Harry supposed not, though he didn't know why anyone would be following them. He was making a list of people who might have been following him from school when Namshiel suddenly made an odd request.

 _I need you to do something, my dear child._

 _Anything_ , Harry instantly replied. Anything Namshiel wanted would only be to Harry's benefit. He was, of course, Harry's almost-father.

 _I live in my temple inside your mind, Harry, and so you are the only one I can talk to. Normally this presents no difficulty, because you are the only person worth talking to, or because you can relay my orders to Jeeves. Right now, though, I need to talk to Nicodemus, and it concerns things that you do not know of, and which would take too long to explain._

 _And?_ asked Harry uncertainly. He wasn't sure that there was much he could do about that. There was probably some magic to translate Namshiel's illusions so others could see them, but Harry certainly wasn't able to do it.

 _I can speak through your mouth, Harry, if you agree to it. You would simply need to relax and not panic when I do so._

 _Is it going to hurt?_

 _Of course not. I would never do anything to harm you, my host_.

So Harry turned to Nicodemus and said, "Namshiel wants to talk to you, sir."

Nicodemus blinked at Harry, as though he were moderately surprised to hear that, but then he smiled.

"Of course, Mr. Potter. Do you know how to do it?"

Namshiel stirred in his mind, and Harry opened his mouth. A voice that was most certainly not his own echoed from his throat. Harry found the effect disconcerting. Also, it rather tickled.

"My dear host may not, Nicodemus, but _I_ most certainly do. Greetings and salutations."

"The Shadowed Mage," Nicodemus returned in kind, a wry smile twisting his lips. "How have you faired since last we spoke?"

"Very well indeed. Harry is a delightful boy – quick of mind, studious, and _powerful_. I have not had such a host since Diocletian."

Harry flushed with pride and his chest swelled. He rarely had such high praise from Namshiel. He had not known his surrogate father had thought so much of him. He even compared him to an _emperor_.

"Indeed," Nicodemus said, eyes widening ever so slightly. "It is to be expected, of course. You do not normally cooperate with a host. When was the last one?"

"Faustus, a few hundred years ago. Nor was that my choice, if you remember correctly."

"Interesting. I knew that there must have been something special about him when he still appeared to be fully in control of his faculties at the station."

" _What!?"_ Harry exclaimed, shocked. It was only when Nicodemus gave him a questioning look that he realized he had wrested back control of his vocal cords and said that out loud.

"Why wouldn't I be fully in control of my faculties?" Harry demanded, lowering his voice.

To his intense irritation, instead of responding to his questions, Nicodemus instead chose to address Namshiel once more.

"How much have you told the boy about us, Namshiel? Evidently not everything."

"I have told him as much as is necessary. It is not your place, Nicodemus, nor _yours_ , Spymaster, to interfere with my host."

Nicodemus' eyebrows drew together sharply. The shadows in the vehicle seemed to accrete beneath him, gathering darkness from all around the room drawing into a nebulous pool at his feet.

Harry shivered despite himself, and he felt Namshiel tense inside his mind.

"Do not presume to tell us our place, Namshiel," Nicodemus said very softly, his shadow swelling behind him. "We lead; you follow. Recent events have not endeared you to me. Your mastery of rituals and summoning may be without peer, and you may be the eldest of the Bound, but make no mistake – you are not invaluable. Do not test me."

Harry wanted to hide, to curl up into a ball to avoid angering the man to whom he spoke. Instead, he felt his lips curl back as Namshiel reluctantly spat a reply.

"Even as you say."

"Since your teacher has been remiss in this matter, Harry," Nicodemus continued, "it falls to me to, shall we say, bring you up to speed. I think it best to get it over with quickly. Who do you think Namshiel is?"

"A wizard," Harry said before hesitating. He wasn't too sure about the next part, but it was his best guess as to his mentor's true identity, pieced together from countless little mannerisms and pieces of information. "I would guess him to be Seneca the Younger."

Nicodemus quirked an eyebrow.

"Interesting. Not a horrible guess, as you've the timeline of interaction approximately correct, but still very, very wrong. Tell me, why do you assume him to be a wizard?"

"Because that's the only person that could know so much about magic. Who else could have taught me so much?"

"A god. One of the High Sidhe, perhaps. But he is neither of those."

"Then what is he?!" Harry demanded, his spine prickling in anticipation. He'd always been curious about Namshiel's past, but the man had never been forthcoming.

"One of those," Nicodemus replied, voice growing deep and rasping, grating on Harry's ears, "who were cast down, their greatness taken from them!"

In defiance of the mid-afternoon sunlight coming through the windows, the darkness in the automobile grew, and the lights flickered strangely. A deep shadow passed over the sun, plunging the passengers into near-darkness.

"Those who are your greatest benefactors, Harry, your greatest allies."

"Who?" asked Harry, almost dreading the answer, yet excited by the prospect. "Who, Mr. Archleone?"

The car went silent. Harry couldn't hear the rumbling of the engine or the steady beat of the tires anymore. A terrible anticipation was building up inside him. He had almost burst with it when Namshiel finally answered.

 _The Fallen_ , his mentor whispered, echoed by Nicodemus in the real world.

Harry had no response to that.

He'd known – no, that wasn't right; he'd suspected that Namshiel wasn't an ordinary wizard. His breadth of knowledge, his casual experience with creatures Harry had learnt in Defense Against the Dark Arts to be evil, had all pointed to that. Not to mention that Namshiel lived in a coin in Harry's hand.

But to know that the entity he thought of as his father was a Fallen Angel . . .

"Oh," Harry Potter said, and was then quite quiet.

"It is a rare child," Nicodemus observed, "whom, upon being told that they are host to a Fallen Angel, responds with 'oh.' It is a good start, Harry Potter, but I must be frank with you. Should you not agree to retain Namshiel's Coin and work willing with us, you shall not be leaving this car alive."

Harry's tried to sneak a glance at the pretty girl sitting next to Nicodemus to see where she stood in all this. She noticed and smiled at him, showing teeth that were too long and sharp for his liking.

If Nicodemus thought for one moment that he was a tool to simply be used and then discarded, Harry would soon show him the error of his thinking. He had a feeling that Namshiel would support whatever decision he made, even if he ended up fighting Nicodemus.

But Harry wasn't that stupid. Given the choice between death and servitude, he'd choose servitude every time.

Death wasn't an option. Not after he'd seen it in person, not after Quirrell.

"But I should like to try and persuade you to join our little Order. We've never had a wand-wizard before, and you could prove invaluable for various reasons."

"By all means," Harry said, so afraid that he was nearly wetting his pants, "proceed."

"You will join us," Nicodemus Archleone said to him, "because you are ruled by fear. You are afraid, Harry Potter. So very afraid; afraid of loneliness; afraid of being a freak; and above all, afraid of _death_. You may pretend you are like those around you. But you are not. You might not like to admit it, but that makes it no less true. It's denial. You are different. You are a freak.

That . . . struck Harry as true, but not quite the full truth. To be quite honest, he thought himself above those who surrounded him.

"You're afraid, but you don't have to be. You're above them, Mr. Potter. There's an entire world waiting for you. Uncounted paths you could take. Allies who would stand with you over the years. Who would accept you instead of scorning you. You could discover what happened to your parents, if you have not already. Avenge them. Find a family. Find a place where you truly belonged."

He'd chosen to use words that struck hard on the oldest wound in Harry, a child's pain that had never fully healed. It hurt to him hear those words. It stirred up a senseless old hope, a yearning he had learned to suppress during his time at the Dursleys'. It made him feel lost. Empty. Alone.

If he accepted, Harry knew that he would be welcomed into the Order of the Blackened Denarius as an equal, as a brother.

But there were downsides to Nicodemus' offer as well.

"In exchange for my immortal soul, I presume?"

"It is hardly as if you are making use of it," Nicodemus countered. "Besides, you have a skewed image of us. You probably learned everything you know about us from religious texts. The Church has always had excellent propaganda."

Harry sat there, thinking on that. He couldn't imagine life without Namshiel anymore, even if that was an option. And he was already so close to being what he imagined a Knight of the Blackened Denarius would be anyway . . .

"Harry," Nicodemus said, his voice almost compassionate. "I used to be much as you are now. You are trapped. You are lying to yourself. You pretend to be like any other mortal because you are too terrified to admit that you aren't."

Nicodemus leaned forwards.

"I'm afraid I must ask you for an immediate decision."

Harry couldn't stop himself from imagining what it would feel like to bleed to death, there on the fine upholstery of the seat. Dizziness and cold. Weakness fading into warmth that became perfect, endless darkness. Death.

He made his choice in an instant, when faced with that dark oblivion.

"Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven, no, Mr. Archleone?"

"Welcome" Nicodemus smiled, "to the Order of the Blackened Denarius, Harry James Potter. I'm afraid that a formal induction will have to wait. A limousine, as nice as it might be, is rather unsuitable. Besides, there are several other members of our Order that you must be introduced to."

 _Let me talk again, Harry_ , Namshiel commanded, and Harry obeyed. Quite frankly, he wasn't sure he was out of the woods yet, and he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown after that little chat.

"That," said Harry's mouth, "was entirely unnecessary, Nicodemus. I have no doubt Harry would have agreed to it in any case. He is, after all, my apprentice."

"But it is so very difficult to properly convert a host, Namshiel. And it's been several centuries – millennia, actually- since you last tried it. Nor have you ever been particularly skilled at persuading others."

"You nearly," Namshiel almost snarled, "cost me what might be my finest host."

"Some elaboration is required."

"You know what I have done at your behest. Twice, I performed a ritual in Chicago that no other living wizard could have begun to comprehend. For long ages, I have summoned and bound your hounds for you. Additionally, I've no doubt you have a full picture of Lartessa's magical abilities, all of which she learned from me, by now."

Nicodemus was silent.

"There is no need to confirm it, Nicodemus. Nonetheless, I have always been somewhat limited by my host, even with their full cooperation. No host of mine has ever been a proper wizard. Minor talents, at best. Harry is not one of these. With him as my host I shall reach such heights as I have not reached since my time on the mortal plane. He will more than make up for that gangling imbecile you so notably failed to recruit."

"Really?" Nicodemus breathed. "How . . . extraordinarily lucky for you. Is the child as powerful as Dresden?"

"No."

Harry's heart sunk into his stomach. He had always thought himself of above-average power, and to be told otherwise . . . hurt.

It was always possible that Dresden, whoever that was, was simply abnormally powerful.

"But his control is far greater, and he is undoubtedly far more intelligent. With my aid, he might even bring a Prince into corporeal form."

Harry wondered what a Prince was. Namshiel had told him about the Queens of Faerie just the other day. Perhaps the Princes were a male counterpart to the Queens?

"No. Absolutely not. That may be your preferred method of acting, but it is I who lead the Order of the Blackened Denarius, not you, and I will not leave us open to the retaliation such a thing would invite. How soon could you have the boy at a level matching Dresden's?"

Harry felt Namshiel's sullen acquiescence. His mentor wasn't pleased about that; oh, no.

"Perhaps six years, at the outside. If he lets me assume control during the fights, substantially sooner."

"Pride goeth," Nicodemus murmured, smiling.

"I know that from experience, thank you very much. Who else will be present over the summer?"

"I'd tell you," Nicodemus deadpanned, "but we seem to have arrived at our destination. All those I can be certain are completely loyal to me and who are currently in circulation will be present."

Harry looked out the window onto a dark alley, liberally strewn with garbage and unidentifiable refuse. It was very narrow; he had no idea how the driver planned on getting back out.

Nicodemus exited first, graciously helping Deirdre to get out of the car. Jeeves did much the same for Harry.

Harry stretched, glad to be free of the confines of the car. It was very nice, but it was still a bit cramped with four people in it, one of whom was Jeeves.

An unseasonably chilly wind blew past him as he did so. It was most likely fresh off the Thames, as it smelt of rotting fish, garbage, and general decay.

Harry shivered, suddenly acutely aware of the deepening shadows. He felt a low instinct of nervous trepidation rising up in his gut.

Something wasn't right here, wasn't right with this place. He wasn't sure what it was, but it vaguely reminded him of Lord Voldemort, and that couldn't be a good thing.

He looked out the alley, and suddenly realized he hadn't seen another living person go by. There was a reason that they didn't.

Bad things happened in places like this.

Overhead, the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the crumbling brick factories and warehouses that lined the alley. The alley was plunged into a murky twilight, and Harry shivered again.

Harry was reminded of one of the first things he had learnt in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Dark things came out at night.

 _It is the aura of the place_. _There is a dark energy here. Something happened, something that forever tainted it with darkness. The energy is latent, though, and without direction; you need not fear. It merely reinforces subconscious fears. That is doubtless why Nicodemus chose it; he favors such places, as they keep undesirables from wandering in and randomly interfering."._

Harry took a deep breath, and tried to shove all that fear into a ball deep in his stomach, to be ignored.

It didn't work as well as he hoped.

He hurried over to where Jeeves was patiently holding a door open for him.

The door opened onto a long hallway with light at the far end, enough to let Harry see by. The interior walls of the building were old and cracked and covered in decades of graffiti. The air smelled like mildew and something else, something almost beneath the threshold of perception – something almost like rotting flesh.

Jeeves strode ahead of him with his longer legs and opened a pair of obviously new double doors, opening a path into an enormous room. Harry followed Nicodemus and the girl into it.

It seemed to have been sectioned off into a few small areas, and one massive one right in front of the doors.

In the middle of the floor were a dozen brand-new work lights, blazing away, and an enormous wooden conference table complete with big leather chairs, brightly illuminated in the glow of the lamps. There was a second table loaded with what looked like a catered dinner, covered with dishes, drinks, and a fancy coffee machine.

There were perhaps just less than a score of Nicodemus's servants in sight, standing behind pillars, leaning against walls, or performing various tasks. Nor were they the only ones present; two men were slouched in the chairs at the conference table.

All activity ceased, though, and every eye turned to Nicodemus when he entered, Harry doing his best to remain inconspicuous. The two men at the tables didn't seem to pay him any mind, and the servants had eyes only for Nicodemus.

"At ease," the Denarian said. "All is well. Squires, it would be wise to secure the perimeter and begin regular patrols. It is unlikely that we were followed, but one can never be too careful."

The men (and several women) in black scattered at their master's command, disappearing through various doors or climbing stairs to higher or lower levels.

Harry was more interested in the two men sitting at the table. They hadn't stirred when Nicodemus spoke, so he assumed they weren't the normal servants.

 _They are not_ , Namshiel agreed. _They are either mercenaries, allies, or fellow Denarians. Most likely Denarians."_

"Johnson" said Nicodemus, striding over to the table, "I'm glad you made it. How have you found your new life?"

"Well enough, I suppose. The benefits are pretty good, and I like the one you chose for me. He is quiet and direct, but not a moron like Magog."

"And how has Obsianiel interacted with your gifts?"

"Well," rumbled the man. "I can hit things a lot harder now. More important, I can hit harder things. Before, I had to be careful, or I'd break every bone in my freakin' hand. Push myself harder for longer, too."

Johnson stood up and walked a few steps away from the table. He seemed to be looking around at the ground for something. Harry supposed he found it when he emitted a grunt and drew his hand back as though preparing for a punch.

Harry expected that the man would indeed break every bone in his hand, despite his earlier boast, if he punched the concrete.

Johnson didn't punch it, though; there was a blur of motion so fast that Harry only realized the man was moving after he had stopped.

The hand didn't shatter. Concrete did, spraying chips and dust into the air. Johnson smiled, the white grin splitting his dark face.

Harry took a careful step away from the man. He seemed dangerous.

"Impressive," Nicodemus said in a patiently strained paternal tone, "though I would appreciate it if you did not resort to such displays in the future. This is our base of operations, after all."

"Sorry," Johnson grunted, though he didn't sound like it. "I got bored. Urumviel here wasn't good conversation."

The other man at the table gave no indication that he heard the insult, merely staring off into blank space. He wore what looked like the uniform of Nicodemus' servitors.

"That is hardly surprising. It takes considerable effort to completely suborn a body; I doubt he wished to expend himself on idle chitchat."

"Huh," Johnson snorted. "So, boss, what we doin'? I know you didn't call me back from the States just 'cause you wanted to chat. And who's the girlie?"

Nicodemus' eyes went flat and dangerous.

"The girl," he said softly yet firmly, "is my daughter, Deirdre. I suggest you treat her with appropriate respect."

Harry watched in fascination as Johnson's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Hard. It was strangely hypnotic.

"The other member of our little coterie is Harry Potter. He has yet to take his oaths."

"Eh? Who?" Johnson asked. Harry supposed Johnson hadn't seen him lurking behind Nicodemus.

Nicodemus reached back and hauled Harry forwards.

Harry looked at Johnson, and Johnson at Harry.

Then the big man burst out laughing.

"You've gotta be joking! My kid brother looks tougher than this guy! How old is he? Four? Five?"

"Eleven," Harry informed him coldly. He did not like this man. Did he judge Harry based only on his size and youth?

"Eleven, huh? You been stealin' 'em from the nursery, Nicodemus?"

"Harry, though he lacks training, has vast, untapped potential, and is more than suited for Knighthood. Are you questioning my judgement on this, Johnson?"

"No, sir," Johnson mumbled. Harry felt a surge of vindictive satisfaction.

"Excellent. Harry has already taken up a Coin, so you needn't worry about him challenging for yours."

"Yeah," snorted Johnson, "right."

"Who?" a new, rasping voice demanded. "Who has bonded to this wizard?"

Harry looked over at the table. Urumviel, if that was his name, wasn't just sitting there staring into space anymore. His eyes were as empty as ever, despite the fact he was talking.

Harry concluded it was most likely the swirling orange ones above them that were in control.

 _Urumviel does not cooperate with his hosts, unless they are extraordinarily strong of will and can force him to. He goes through them almost as quickly as Magog does, though he is nowhere as stupid as that ape. Nicodemus must have given him a squire to use as a temporary host. Feast your eyes on what might have happened, boy, had I decided to wrest control from you. Remember that._

Harry shuddered and looked away from Urumviel just as the Fallen spoke again. That was a thought he could have done without.

"Who, Nicodemus?"

Nicodemus pursed his lips and said, quite matter-of-factly, "Thorned Namshiel."

"I suppose that it fits," Urumviel allowed, before going back to staring into the distance. "At least he might be of some use now, unless this one dies as quickly as all the recent ones. How long have they been bonded, Nicodemus?"

"Well over a year. Namshiel appears to have dealt with his curse rather adroitly."

"Impressive. Throwing off a curse from the Winter Queen is no small feat. He always was the most adept at magic, even after the Fall."

Johnson appeared to be listening to someone Harry couldn't hear. Suddenly, the man's gaze snapped back to Harry.

"Wizard, huh? I've never cared for them much. White Council bastards, always trying control a man's life. Besides, fighten' ought to be hand-to-hand."

"What you do is much the same as what any wizard does," Nicodemus sighed, moving to the head of the table and sinking into a seat. Dierdre draped herself across his lap.

"I been told that before, and it's not. What's that on your forehead, kid?"

Harry had no intention of answering that, and he kept quiet. He trusted Nicodemus would intervene if Johnson took offense, which seemed likely, given the way his dark eyes narrowed.

Harry blinked once, and Johnson was suddenly standing in front of him. He reached out a big hand to brush Harry's hair away from his head. Harry was too shocked to protest this sudden invasion of his personal privacy.

A different hand, this one covered in age spots and wrinkles, caught Johnson's wrist and forced it slowly, methodically away from Harry.

"Master Potter," Jeeves warned firmly, "did not give permission for you to do that. It is rude to do so."

Johnson snarled at the much older man, and wrenched his wrist out of Jeeve's grasp, and then backhanded him savagely across the face. Harry saw black blood fly and he nearly gasped.

Jeeves, though, didn't move. He didn't even seem to notice the blow.

The two men stood there, staring at each other, unblinking.

Harry was sure that Johnson was going to lose control and absolutely destroy Jeeves until he snapped his head to one side, eyeing something on the ground with obvious misgivings. Harry craned his neck to see what it was, but Jeeves moved in front of him, blocking his field of vision.

"That is quite enough, Johnson. Unlike Tessa, I do not tolerate fights among my Denarians. Until such time as the job is over, I expect you to treat your current opponent as a professional peer and an ally. Stand down, and leave Namshiel's butler alone."

"The hell that's a butler," the big man snarled. "That thing's a killer."

"I assure you, the two are hardly mutually exclusive. Now, _sit_."

There was a hard edge in Nicodemus' voice when he said that. Johnson sat down rather quickly.

Harry sat down too. He mused that evil meetings probably weren't quite the same for members whose feet did not touch the ground when they sat down.

"Thank you, gentlemen, for putting that aside for the nonce," Nicodemus said smoothly. "Proper introductions are in order for you, Harry. To my right sits Isayini Johnson, host to Obsianiel. At the far end of the table is Urumviel. And this," Nicodemus continued, patting the girl's head, "is my daughter, Deirdre."

Johnson glowered at Jeeves. Urumviel stared off into the distance. Dierdre yawned like Harry imagined a big cat might.

He could already tell that these meetings were going to be _ever_ so fun. Perhaps even as much fun as dinner with the Dursleys.

"In any case, the first matter at hand is Mr. Potter's formal introduction. Namshiel, if you wouldn't mind explaining the basics to Harry?"

 _The rite requires little from you, Harry, apart from a little pain and a few empty words. You have already made the only choice the matters._

 _Pain?_ Harry asked, uncertain. Did they want him to cut himself or something, like in some of the faux-Satanic slasher films? It didn't quite fit together with what he knew of Nicodemus.

 _Nothing_ _so vulgar, I assure you,_ Namshiel sniffed. _I'll simply be coming out to play for a second or two, Harry._

 _I thought you were pretty much stuck in the Coin?_

 _It is a manner of speaking, my host. In times of need, we can assume a different form, a perfect union of our two selves. It is a form more suitable for fighting, and, in some cases more durable. Some require little experience to use, but others, like that of Nicodemus, can take years to learn to use properly. Mine is one of the latter._

Harry thought that terribly exciting. He started to think of what his battle-form might look like. Something like a lion? A Chimaera? A werewolf?"

 _Stop that. You shan't be in it for more than a second or two, nor use it for years after this._

He felt rather put out by that. What good was such a wicked thing if he couldn't even use it?

 _It is dangerous, to both you and your enemy. Improper use can inflict permanent damage._

"Are you quite ready, Mr. Potter?"

Harry nodded weakly at Nicodemus.

"Excellent," Nicodemus murmured, smiling. Then he said, "Deirdre."

Dierdre rose from where she had been sitting quietly on Nicodemus' lap. When she did so, she gave Harry an almost sisterly smile that made him shift uneasily.

 _Do not worry, Harry. What comes is but a taste of the power that awaits you. Show no fear, especially in the presence of Urumviel._

And then Deirdre changed.

First her eyes shifted, changing from dark orbs to pits filled with a burning crimson glow. A second set of eyes, these glowing green, blinked open above the first. And then her face contorted, the bones shifting. Her skin seemed to ripple and then hardened, darkening to the ugly deep purple of a fresh bruise, taking on the consistency of thick hide. The dress just seemed to shimmer out of existence, revealing legs that had contorted, her feet lengthening dramatically, until they looked backward-hinged. And her hair changed - it grew, slithering out of her scalp like dozens of writhing serpents, flattening into hard, metallic ribbons of midnight black that rustled and stirred and rippled of their own volition.

On the other side of Nicodemus, Johnson thrust his chair away from him and ripped off his coat like some sort of superhero.

Johnson's skin changed. At first, it became ever darker than it was. Then it began to gleam with a dark sheen under the light of the work lamps. He raised his hands above his head with the sound of rock scraping on rock, and a second pair of eyes, these a deep violet, appeared on his forehead.

At the far end of the table, Urumviel underwent a transformation of his own. He let out a howl of famished rage, unnaturally prolonged, as he did so, joints popping and flesh rippling. The eyes of the mortal host shrunk to burning fishhooks, but Urumviel's were already wide open.

Wings sprouted from his back with an agonizing crack of bone. Muscles swelled to impossible proportions as his body ballooned, growing almost half as large again, and immeasurably heavier. Hooks and whips sprang up in various places across his massive form. His skin, the colour of cooling lava, thickened into a series of leathery plates running down his spine, arms, and legs and covering his most vital spots like a suit of armor.

Urumviel growled, flicking a forked tongue over his serrated teeth as he clenched and unclenched his clawed hands.

As all that happened, Nicodemus's shadow simply grew, with no change in the light to prompt it. It stretched out behind him, and then up the wall, growing and growing until it spread over the whole of that side of the huge warehouse.

"Bear witness," Nicodemus said quietly, "as Harry James Potter takes up, of his own free will, the Coin of Thorned Namshiel, the Shadowed Mage, the Inversion of Melchizedek, and the Conjurer."

All seven pairs of eyes present fixed themselves on Harry.

 _Be strong. This shall be most disorienting._

"I reject my Maker," Harry said, voice quavering and uncertain, following the advice of the ancient evil within his skull. "I cleave to the darkness."

He could feel something stirring deep within his chest, some green-eyed monster that should never have seen the light of day. Far more quickly than Harry would have liked, that stirring turned into a deep burn in his guts.

That was about how much pain he had expected from Namshiel's description.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Harry doubled over with a cry as the first spasm of pain hit him, as though someone had stabbed him in the stomach with a knife. Another stabbing pain through his guts dropped him to his knees and he screamed his agony. His skeleton felt as though it was being stretched, his bones liquified and then cooled in some new shape.

After what seemed an eternity, though it could not have been more than a second, that pain changed into a molten glow in his stomach. Painful, yes, but ripe with the promise of dark power. Harry staggered to one knee.

"I grasp," he managed, raising his arms to the sky, "for myself power and glory that He would claim as his own. I am a Denarian, Host to Thorned Namshiel, and I know no God!"

Harry noticed through the strange haze of a euphoric power rush and pain that his arms did not look as they normally did; they were thin, but so much longer. And were those _barbs_?

He turned his head to see the reactions of the others, but it was so painfully slow, a simple movement expanded into a nearly motionless lifetime.

Then, suddenly, it was over and he was gasping on the floor like a hooked fish, clutching his stomach. Strong arms carefully slid under him, picked him up.

"Well," he dimly heard Nicodemus say, "that's dinner."

* * *

Harry snapped awake with his sheets tented over his head, pulse racing. He was supposed to be excited about something. Something that didn't happen often . . .

 _Nicodemus!_ He remembered suddenly. _The Order, the induction!_

Then he was cross as he remembered his transition into his battle-form. He hadn't stayed in it for more than a moment or two, so he didn't even know what it did. Nor had he gotten to a mirror, either, to see what it looked like.

And the forms of the others had been absolutely _wicked_.

It was rather unfair, really, since Namshiel had sounded as though it would be a long, long time before he allowed Harry to use it again.

But that was a matter for another time, Harry decided as he pushed off the sheets and rolled out of bed. He hissed as his feet made contact with icy cold stone. He stood there for a moment, giving his body time to adjust, and then padded over to the door, and cracked it open.

One of Nicodemus' cultists stood outside, presumably guarding his door. Or preventing him from getting out.

Well, Harry would see about that.

"Excuse me, sir?" he began, opening the door. "Do you know where Nicodemus is? Or Jeeves?"

The man stared at him. He might as well have been carved of stone, for all the emotion he showed.

"Nicodemus? Our glorious leader? Dark suit, and a grey tie that I rather fancy?"

"You'll have to forgive them," came Nicodemus' voice. He came through a door at the far end of the hall, freshly dressed, shaved, and showered.

Harry would like to have known how exactly he pulled that off.

He wore pajama pants, slippers, and a smoking jacket of Hugh Hefner vintage. The grey noose still circled his throat. "I like to encourage discretion in my employees, and I have very high standards. Sometimes it makes them seem standoffish."

"You don't let them talk to other members of the Order, even?" Harry asked. That seemed rather counterproductive.

He removed a pipe from his pocket, along with a small tin of Prince Albert tobacco. "I remove their tongues."

"Ah," Harry said, wincing and moving his own tongue around in his mouth. He could only imagine how painful such a process would be. "How do they communicate, then?"

Nicodemus puffed on the pipe and smiled. "They have a variety of ways, from their own sign language to the written word. They more than make up for such inconveniences with weapons such as fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, an almost fanatical devotion to the Order, and nice black uniforms. Shall we head down to the main area? I believe breakfast is almost ready."

Harry readily agreed and followed Nicodemus up several flights of stairs to the room he had been initiated in yesterday.

Another expressionless man came in, this one older, thin, with thick grey hair. He pushed a room-service cart. He unfolded a small table and set it up over to one side. Nicodemus toyed with the bowl of his pipe. Harry paced. There wasn't much to occupy him. Namshiel hadn't talked to him at all since last night, which deeply concerned him. The Fallen had almost always been available for him to ask questions of. Harry supposed he must have been doing something rather important.

Nicodemus watched the valet set out three folding chairs and cover the table with a white cloth.

"Tell me, Harry, what have you been doing in your time with Namshiel? The affairs of wand-wizards are of little concern to me, I'm afraid, and I pay them little attention."

"Well," Harry began, "Namshiel spent a some months teaching me about true-magic, which he deigned to say I was rather good at. Then, on my eleventh birthday, I got my letter from Hogwarts."

"And what, pray tell, is Hogwarts?"

"It's the premier school for British witchcraft and wizardry. Wand-magic, that is. They reach loads of things there; Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and lots of less useful things. I'm very good at Potions, but not quite as good at Transfiguration or Charms. I'll probably improve once we start learning useful material, though, instead of how to levitate objects or turn mice into pincushions."

"I'm sure you will," Nicodemus smiled. "What useful wand-magic have you learnt, then?"

"Mostly potions, if you can really call that wand-magic. They do their best to restrict us from using dark magic, or learning potions that can injure or kill. I've learned some ways to get around that, though, and I know how to make at least a half dozen poisons that have no antidote and kill without a trace. Polyjuice potion too, which lets you transform into someone else for a little while, and I've begun work on Veritaserum, a truth potion.

The valet opened the cart and started setting out food on the table. Hash browns. Some cheese. Some biscuits, bacon, sausages, pancakes, toast, fruit. And coffee, though that was something Jeeves would not approve of Harry drinking (proper gentlemen drank tea, Jeeves always said).

The smell hit Harry's stomach, and it started crawling around the inside of his abdomen, trying to figure out how to get away and get some food. He remembered that he hadn't eaten since he left Hogwarts.

"Most useful. Most useful indeed, Nicodemus said as he sat down. The valet poured him some coffee. "Pleases sit. I also find it interesting that there is what amounts to a school for wizards. The wizards I am familiar with are notoriously tight-lipped, rarely taking on more than two or three apprentices, and never sharing most of what they have learned."

"Well, there are loads of students at Hogwarts. Several hundred." Harry picked up a piece of bacon and nibbled at it. It was quite good. "There are more schools in Europe, too -Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, I think."

Nicodemus paused in his reply to add his own cream, no sugar. His spoon clinked on the cup.

"Interesting. What of Asia, Africa, the Americas? Are there any schools there that you've heard mentioned?"

Harry scrunched up his face and tried to remember. He didn't think so.

"No. Actually, I don't think I've ever heard any of the teachers mention any of those continents or countries on those continents.

"How very curious," Nicodemus said as he sipped at his coffee and closed his eyes in enjoyment. "Quite possibly something to do with Warden oversight, direct or otherwise. But enough of such dull topics. Did you do anything interesting during the schoolyear?"

Harry took a piece of toast and buttered it. "Actually, yes! Very out of the ordinary, as far as I could tell. First of all, a troll attacked a girl on Hallowe'en. It very nearly killed her, but the Headmaster intervened and she only ended up paralyzed below the waist. The Healers couldn't repair it."

"That is predictable. Wizards cannot cure such injuries with true-magic, either, though they may heal it over time. Only beings of greater power can cure such ailments instantly. The Fallen can, certainly, when ones takes up a Coin."

Harry made note of that for future reference, and then continued with his story. His tone became more serious as he recalled who caused the event.

"Unbeknownst to us, though, the incident was intentional. Professor Quirrell, our Defense against the Dark Arts teacher, was possessed by a shade of Lord Voldemort."

"Lord Voldemort? Is this not the man who murdered your parents, and whom you supposedly defeated as a mere babe?"

Harry nodded, wondering how Nicodemus knew about that.

"I am not _totally_ ignorant of everything that goes on amongst the wand-wizards. I believe I crossed paths with the man before. But please, continue."

Harry went on to relate the story of the Door, how he had found it destroyed, circumvented the remaining traps, and stalled Quirrell until Dumbledore arrived.

"I am hard-pressed," admitted Nicodemus, "to believe that Namshiel decided to let you enter such a scenario. He normally tends towards being overly cautious. I much desire to speak with him, if you would be so kind as to inform him."

"I'll try," Harry said uncertainly, "but he hasn't said a single word since the initiation."

"That's very strange. Still, please try."

Harry nodded and tried to calm his thoughts before reaching out to the Fallen.

 _Namshiel?_

No response.

 _Namshiel?_

There was still no response, though Harry fancied he could just barely hear a man screaming in a high-pitched voice.

 _Namshiel, Nicodemus wants to talk to you!_

That time, he felt the Fallen stirring in his mind, and presently he had the odd feeling he got when Namshiel seized control of his vocal cords.

"Apologies for my neglect," came Namshiel's smooth voice, "I have been absurdly busy with untold suffering. But now, you have my undivided attention."

"Suffering, hmm? Whose?"

"An uninvited guest's. It is of little consequence, however. What did you wish to speak to me about?"

"I wished to ask your opinion on the prospects of this British wizard, the so-called Lord Voldemort."

"If you are thinking of recruiting him," (Harry started at that. He would not allow it, could not allow it. Voldemort had to be made to pay, for the deaths of the parents Harry hardly remembered ) "you needn't bother. I've already promised young Harry his head. In any event, he would not have made a suitable Denarian. There can be little doubt that the man is a genius, and has power on par with the lower tiers of the Senior Council (unheard of, for a wand-wizard). Had he been in corporeal form when Dumbledore battled him, I rather suspect he would have prevailed."

"And why would he have been unsuitable?"

"Because he is uncontrollable, and quite mad. You refused to even consider approaching Kemmler, and this man is far more unstable. Nor would you, or anyone, be able to control him without a _geas_ or something similar. He will never bow to anyone, even if it would cost him his life, because he is absolutely certain that he is superior."

"Hmm. I quite agree. Perhaps in the future, we might go a-hunting for him, to celebrate young Harry's ascension to manhood or some such."

So, he was not alone in the fight against Voldemort. Oh, he was sure Dumbledore would have helped him, but less sure if he would condone his methods.

"I think that would be considerably more difficult than you imagine. He either has some form of immortality, or has managed to tie himself to the mortal plane, and he can kill with a spell that cannot be blocked by other wand-wizards. No other wand-wizard could best him in a fight."

Nicodemus smiled pleasantly and fingered his grey tie.

The conversation was interrupted when footsteps thudded on the stairs, and Deirdre came into the room.

Her long, dark hair was sleep-tousled, and she wore a kimono of dark silk belted loosely, so that gaps appeared as she moved.

Harry blushed and turned away. She evidently didn't have anything on underneath it. Like Harry had noted earlier, the building was unnaturally cold.

Deirdre yawned and stretched lazily, watching Harry as she did. She too spoke with an odd accent, just different enough from normal speech for it to be noticeable. "Good morning."

"And you, little one."

Deirdre nodded sleepily. "Have I missed breakfast?"

Nicodemus smiled at her. "Not at all. Give us a kiss."

She slid onto his lap and did. With tongue.

Yuck. Harry didn't even want to _think_ about the implications of that.

After a moment she rose, and Nicodemus held one of the chairs out for her as she sat down. He reseated himself and said, "I'm afraid neither Johnson nor Urumviel will be taking breakfast with us. They have other business to attend to, and given the little altercation last night, it may be for the best."

"I should have been very put out," Namshiel said, "if Johnson had severely injured Mr. Jeeves. The man is rash, and apparently prone to violence. What does he specialize in?"

Nicodemus had the valet pour coffee for Deirdre, but he spooned sugar into it himself.

"Kinectomancy," Deirdre said, reaching out to pluck a strawberry from the breakfast table. She took a slow bite from it, lips sealed around the fruit.

"He is talented in it, then?"

"Very," Nicodemus confirmed. "He is a former resident of Los Angeles, ironically enough. Problems with the local Warden and the White Council drove him right into our arms."

"I see," Namshiel said, releasing control of Harry's voice and subsiding into silence.

"What's kinectomancy?" Harry asked. He'd never heard of such a thing. "A form of true magic?"

"It is, and yet it is not. It is an inherent skill, and not one that can truly be learned, as far as I know. Kinectomancers charge up energy and unleash it in devastating bursts of speed, or massively enhanced feats of strength. They are very dangerous, but in bursts. Mr. Johnson combines it with martial arts and the strength and extraordinary durability granted by Obsianiel to great effect."

 _Nicodemus has it almost right,_ Namshiel put in. _As you may have sensed last night. Joshnson's energy was volatile, raw_. _That is because he is young._ _As a kinectomancer ages and gains greater control, they can store up a larger reservoir of kinetic energy. Masters are able to release it in a focused stream of far greater duration, but less powerful individual feats._

 _Is it really that difficult?_ Harry asked him. It hadn't appeared so last night. Johnson had used his powers casually – even more casually than Harry would have used magic.

 _Very. Imagine a vast mass of water, held back by a dam. Johnson opens the floodgates wide, expending vast amounts of his energy in bursts before closing the gate again. Masters open the gate only slightly, allowing some of the energy to escape, but fighting to keep the rest from pushing the doors all the way open._

"It's a rather dangerous art," Nicodemus continued. "Should he expend too much energy, he may accidentally reach into his own vitality and kill himself. As a result, any kinectomancers with significant talent tend to live rather short lives, though there are quite a few in Eastern monasteries."

It was quite possible, Harry reflected, that the same thing would happen to Johnson. He'd already been horribly casual about (mis)using his power. If he was driven into a horrible rage, it seemed rather likely such a thing would happen to him. Then again, maybe Obsianiel could prevent that,

"What's he going to be doing?"

"Mr. Johnson will be serving as a protector and enforcer while you are here."

"And why am I here? I can't really do anything yet, though I suppose I could poison someone," Harry grumped. He felt rather useless in the face of the others' terrible power.

"You are the only one here with latent magical talent, and that is _very_ important."

"How so?" He couldn't see how, especially since he couldn't use it well enough to fight any remotely competent enemy.

"Have you ever been to Edinburgh, Harry Potter?"

 _A/N: No-one expects the surprise update! Anyways, this chapter and the next considerably solidify the timeline. We start with Small Favor in early (small change from canon) November of the year before Hogwarts. Harry takes up Namshiel's coin in mid-February of the following year, and receives his letter to Hogwarts that summer. Turn Coat occurs during the summer between First and Second Years._

 _Timelines are hard as all hell to maintain. There will be some minor retroactive changes to Chapter Two, in order to bring it more in line with the now-set timeline._


	11. Chapter 10: In the Halls of Stone

Chapter X : In the Halls of Stone

"Edinburgh," Harry said. He couldn't remember if he had, but the Dursleys did not take him anywhere, so it was unlikely at best. "No, I haven't. But why would you want to go there?"

Realization struck him. "The White Council!"

"Indeed," Nicodemus said, allowing his butler to pour him more tea. "The White Council is one of the oldest organizations on the planet, and they maintain comprehensive records dating back millennia. The headquarters has shifted from time to time, and place to place. Alexandria, Carthage, Rome, the Vatican, in the early days of the Church, Constantinople and Madrid have all been home to the Council's leadership at one time or another—but since the end of the Middle Ages, they've been located in the tunnels and catacombs hewn from the unyielding stone of Scotland. It is there that we may hope to find those records. Ignored, of course, to the benefit of some."

"Of what use are dusty tomes and trade reports from a thousand years ago?" Harry enquired, trying a strawberry. They were cloyingly sweet, and he didn't care for them.

"History has a rhythm, Mr. Potter. The wise can hear the notes, and pluck the strings. The Council has kept an . . . eye, I suppose you could say, on certain _unique_ magical objects. Even if those items were not theirs. Many of those items have been lost to the sands of time, but it is my hope that we can piece together their locations by using various records of arcane objects. I do not expect the Council records to reveal precise locations, but they can form a piece in the puzzle, and perhaps point to other leads."

"How on earth," Namshiel asked, seizing control of Harry's voice, "do you expect Harry to get into the Hidden Halls? Nothing short of a god could breach the defenses there; they were laid by the original Merlin, amongst others. The gates are guarded by more than just the Wardens; there are entities there that do not sleep, but are ever-watchful."

"That," Nicodemus said, draining his cup and handing to his servant, who bowed and disappeared, "is _your_ problem, Namshiel, not mine. All of my resources are, of course, at your disposal, and I myself shall provide assistance if you are pursued. Should you fail and be killed, I shall simply move on to another likely spot."

His mentor hissed, and Harry involuntary curled his hands into fists. "This is revenge for Arctis Tor, is it not?"

"Of course not, Namshiel," Nicodemus smiled. "I merely thought that the Denarian who breached the Winter stronghold could manage to do so to the White Council's."

"There would have been no need for this, had you not bungled last year. The Archive was within our grasp!"

Nicodemus narrowed his eyes at them. "There is no point in dwelling on what might have been. Consider this a test, of both young Harry's abilities, and of your loyalty."

Harry's head pounded as Namshiel writhed in impotent, white-hot fury. He had to admit, he wasn't thrilled about the prospect himself. The White Council _beheaded_ people like him. Even if the Accords might normally have afforded him some measure of safety (assuming the Order was a signatory, which he was unsure of), he would instantly forfeit that when he set foot on their property.

Now that he thought about it, he was sure that the Accords must have been drafted by an American.

"So be it," Namshiel finally spat, poison bubbling from every word. "If that is your will, I shall obey. What information am I looking for?"

"As I mentioned earlier, the Council was deeply entwined with the Church during its infancy. I hope to find the location of certain relics that went missing almost immediately after the death of the Enemy, relatively speaking."

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am." His eyes flashed. " _Deadly_ serious."

"And you classified summoning a Prince as dangerous," Namshiel sighed, settling down, apparently somewhat mollified by the knowledge. Harry didn't know what Namshiel had managed to infer from Nicodemus' words, but if it was good enough for Namshiel, it was good enough for him. Those artefacts are not to be trifled with - I can only hope you know what you're doing. Do you have a circle in the building?"

"No. Too dangerous. Those can work both ways, if you are not careful. Besides, no-one aside from you would be able to use it, and we had thought you lost to us."

"Then do you know where Jeeves is?"

"I believe your manservant is down with the hounds. I shall have someone fetch him, if you would like."

Harry nodded. Namshiel did not deign to respond.

Nicodemus reached over and rang a little silver handbell on the table. One of his servants appeared almost at once. Nicodemus whispered something to him. The man nodded and disappeared, only to presently reappear with Jeeves in tow.

"And there is your servant, Namshiel. Do you need anything particularly difficult to obtain, or do you wish to begin your preparation by yourself?"

"No," Namshiel finally said, after some deliberation. "My hope is that I can either discover a weak point in the wards and force my way through, or find some mention of an alternative entrance that is less well guarded. I need nothing from you for the attempt itself, but it would be prudent if you could have another one of the Order waiting someplace in case of pursuit."

"Of course; I shall be there myself, outside St. Giles. I have business there in any case."

With that, Nicodemus excused himself, and he and Deirdre went back down the stairs.

"Jeeves, take us to the car, if you please."

"Yes, sir."

Harry thought it rather impressive that Jeeves had already managed to acquire a car. Perhaps it was a loan from Nicodemus. He seemed to remember Nicodemus had a similar vehicle when he first rescued Harry from the Dursleys.

Jeeves held the passenger door for Harry, who smiled broadly. He had never gotten to ride in the front seat before!

Jeeves then slid into the driver's seat himself. No sooner was the door closed than Namshiel spoke.

"Jeeves, do you have anyone in the White Council?"

"Several, sir, one of whom is quite highly placed. If I may be so bold, why do you ask?"

"Nicodemus Archleone, may he rot in the Ninth Circle," Namshiel spat, "has given me the task of accessing the White Council records. Harry is in no way, shape, or form prepared for such a task, precocious though he might be. Now without half a century of training would I attempt to force entry to such a place, so we must look to other means of egress."

"I am sure my contact could get you in, sir. He is quite ingenious, and above suspicion. Would you like me to contact him?"

"Yes," Namshiel said.

"Please," Harry added, moving his face to bask in the air-conditioning.

* * *

Harry had learnt a little from Namshiel about Ways. Which essentially meant that he knew enough to never, ever use them.

Ways, Namshiel had informed him, were a dangerous convenience. They were pathways through the Nevernever accessible to mortals with talent enough to open paths to that bizarre dimension. A wizard could follow such paths a short distance, and open another gateway to a point in the mortal world that would have taken much longer to reach through traditional methods.

They were very useful to most wizards, of course, even though they changed from decade to decade. Harry got a sense that Namshiel knew hundreds, maybe even thousands, of such paths, all over the world.

But he didn't use them, ever. As the Fallen had explained to Harry, a wizard was essentially entrusting himself to the whims of Fate if he traveled using Ways. The Nevernever was infinite and deadly, and the beings who dwelt there even more so. The chances of coming across a hostile being of significant power was too great.

Especially if the Winter Queen had it out for you.

That was why Harry was waiting awkwardly by a big fountain near Castle Rock for his contact. Namshiel had absolutely refused to enter the Hidden Halls via the Nevernever, so the mysterious wizard had reluctantly agreed to let them in through a rarely used route in the mortal plane.

Harry sighed, and ran his hand through the falling water, momentarily disrupting it. He had been waiting there for far longer than intended, and he was beginning to become anxious. Waiting hard enough as it was, because adults seemed to be obsessed with the idea that any child by himself was lost.

"Hello, there," came a voice from over Harry's shoulder, and Harry turned, prepared to tell another adult that _no_ , he was not lost, thank you very much.

Instead he snapped his mouth shut.

A slender, reedy little wizard in a tan tweed suit stood behind him, holding a disproportionately large briefcase in one ink-stained hand. There was a pencil tucked behind one ear, and a fountain pen behind the other.

That would be his contact.

"The end," Harry said, calmly and clearly, "is nigh."

"For that is not dead which can eternal lie," the man replied. "Samuel Peabody, at your service."

"Harry Potter, at yours."

"I thought so. The scar is rather distinctive, but one can never be too careful. Now, if you don't mind, we must move along. Getting you inside will be chancy as it is. Do you know how to actively suppress your magic?"

Harry shook his head. "No, but I've had it taken care of for the nonce."

"Well, I suppose it can't be helped, though it may make getting past some of the golems more difficult. Tell your _friend_ to be very careful, and avoid calling up any Hellfire; some of the Council members have experience with his ilk, and the risk of detection is high. If you are approached by anyone else, do not look them in the eye. Understood?"

Harry nodded. The risks of a soulgaze were too great. Though they did not happen by mere happenstance, there was always a possibility that soulgazes were part of the security measures.

"Good," Peabody said. "You'll be playing the part of my nephew and potential apprentice, but one not yet ready for the trials of wizardry. Come along, now – I'm late as it is."

Harry blinked at the rapid-fire instructions, but Peabody was already moving away from him, and Harry had to run to catch up.

Harry caught him at a copse of ancient oak trees, draped in moss and girded with ivy. Peabody simply brushed the foliage aside and continued on at a fast clip. Harry followed, trying to dance between the patches of bare mud and dewy grass.

The grove was unnaturally silent – no bird calls disturbed the surreal peace, and no winds dared to rustle the leave of the grey trees. The forest felt empty, sterile, malevolent. It aware of Harry and sullenly, spitefully hostile to him. It did not want him there, and it did not have the least regard for him.

As soon as he realized that, the hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled, and he fancied that the trees were beginning to close in around him. A low, sourceless anxiety, one he barely noticed against the backdrop of all the perfectly rational anxiety he was carrying, arose in his gut. But as he continued through the woods, it got worse, maturing into a fluttery panic that made his heart beat faster and dried out his mouth.

Then he realized that the trees actually _were_ beginning to close in around him, and he nearly lost control of his bladder then and there.

"Mr. Peabody!" he hissed, trying in vain both to be quiet and to attract the wizard's attention. "Mr. Peabody!"

The wizard did not ever bother to turn.

"The trees won't bite, boy. They won't attack humans or wizards – at least not without provocation or direct commands. Now, come along."

So the strange wizard and the young boy passed beneath the oaks that had stood for generations, and the trees watched them. They had drunken the blood that flowed from Auld Rock itself - Castle Edinburgh, where kings and queens, lords and ladies, have defied, besieged, betrayed and slaughtered one another since pre-Christian times. They were old, and full of hate. They could sense the ancient darkness emanating from the slight frame of the child – his mortal shell could hardly contain it. Had they been free, they would have ripped his soft flesh to shreds and supped upon his blood.

But they were bound by the Council, and they had no say in the matter.

Then the boy bent over and clipped something around his ankle, and the trees could sense him no more.

* * *

Harry batted a dangling strand of ivy out of his way, and then drew up next to Peabody. They'd been in the grove for nearly a quarter of an hour; far longer than they should have been, even granted the difficulty of navigating the thick woods. Perhaps the Nevernever brushed quite close to the mortal world at this point.

A vast rock face stood before them. It stretched up perhaps a hundred feet to the walls of the castle itself.

Peabody took two steps forwards and spoke to the air.

"I and my ward seek entry to the Hidden Halls, O Warden. May I pass?"

A figure fizzled into being before them, slowly resolving into an enormous bear of a man with a big black beard. He was wearing a grey cloak, and leaning on a massive, two-handed swrod.

"Hmm," the man rumbled slowly, his eyes flickering over Harry. "Who is the youngling, Wizard Peabody?"

"My sister's son, and a potential candidate for membership in the Council, if he keeps at his studies. I am attempting to ease him into his apprenticeship, and thought it would be good for him to see his future; more than that, he will make an invaluable assistant in fetching records and carrying sundry items."

"No doubt," the Warden agreed. "The seasons turn for all of us. But the Hidden Halls are no place for a child."

Peabody muttered something under his breath. "He is magi, Bjorn, not a child. I shall vouch for him and keep him under my direct supervision."

Bjorn seemed to mull over that for a long time.

"Then be welcome," he finally said, his heavy Scandinavian accent mangling the words almost beyond comprehension, "to the seat of the White Council. Enter in peace and depart in peace."

Bjorn rapped his staff thrice upon the grey face of the Auld Rock, and a fissure suddenly appeared with a groan of stone. Massive slabs of rock slowly formed the posts and lintel of a black doorway.

An enormous stone dog prowled forth out of the darkness, and padded up to Harry. It sniffed him twice, and then sneezed.

Harry held his breath, and he could see a vague tension in Peabody's shoulders.

Bjorn smiled, the movement cracking the rocky crags of his face.

"Go on, then, child. You are safe within these halls. I can grant you momentary entry, Peabody, but Wizard McCoy is in charge of Security, and must approve the child's presence within these walls. Go seek him out; I suspect he will be in the War Room, or in his quarters."

Peabody nodded at the man, and then he and Harry entered the Hidden Halls of Edinburgh.

The great stone doors rumbled shut behind them.

Crystals set in the walls began to glow in a rainbow of gentle colors, bathing the whole place in soft, ambient illumination. The tunnel was ancient, worn, chilly, and damp. Water always seemed ready to condense into a half-frozen dew the instant it was given the opportunity by an exhaled breath or a warm body.

Harry shivered, and tried not to think of the thousands of tons of stone above his head. It didn't work too well.

* * *

The Edinburgh entry tunnel from the Nevernever was more than a quarter of a mile long – straight down. A tight spiral staircase wound its way down, punctuated at regular intervals by what could only be arrow-slits and tiny holes in the ceiling for pouring oil.

There were metal gates every couple of hundred stairs at landings, each of them manned by a Warden backed up by a pair of dog statues. Peabody exchanged polite greetings with the Wardens on guard as the dogs sniffed Harry. More than once, they seemed to take an abnormally long time before admitting him – he could tell from the way the conversations became strained as the examinations went on. But Namshiel was sleeping deep inside his Coin, and Harry bore no trace of dark true-magic. He had not broken the Laws.

If he had, he rather suspected things would have gone very differently.

It was interesting, Harry thought, that the dogs attached to younger Wardens seemed to pass him on more quickly. Perhaps it was due to their inexperience.

Soon enough, though, they had passed the last of the checkpoints, and exited the stairs to a larger tunnel, its walls covered in carvings of mystic runes and sigils, of stylized designs and genuinely beautiful artistry. It was bathed in a kind of ambient light without a visible source, which looked rather odd.

Harry was fascinated by the beautifully detailed bas-reliefs on the walls. He couldn't ever remember seeing such delicate carvings. They were almost inhumanly precise.

"Renditions of scenes of the historical high points of the White Council," Peabody informed him, noticing his interest. "There are the sorcerer-pharaohs of Egypt, and the writing of the Book of Solomon. Then onwards to the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. And there, Loew constructs the first golem in Prague."

Harry trailed his hand over an elaborate carving in the stone as he passed it, a mural depicting a battle scene, its edges and lines crisp and clean despite the smoke from occasional torches and the passage of centuries. His fingers left little trails in the light layer of dust coating the wall, revealing a series of impossibly beautiful beings locked in combat together, with wizards and other alien creatures interspersed here and there. But that wasn't what was interesting.

At the very end, there was a man wielding a delicate stick that could only have been a wand. A jet of light was emanating from it towards the sky.

"Ah, yes, the Battle of Hastings. A very influential event; altered the balance of powers in Faerie permanently. Undoubtedly one of the most vicious conflicts ever fought. Don't dawdle, child."

Harry reluctantly obeyed, his eyes still drawn to the image.

The rest of the carvings were wards powerful enough to give anything but a god pause. Harry didn't know what they did, but he could sense the deadly power behind them, and he stayed close to Peabody as the little man led him deeper into the complex.

Harry slowly became aware, as they advanced, of a dim and receding vibration in the ground, as though enormous, silent subterranean river were flowing beneath his feet. He reached out with his mind to try and see what it was. He couldn't explain how he did it; it just happened as he willed it.

That proved to be a bad idea. He was immediately overwhelmed with a rush of images and alien sensations, contacting a power so intense and coherent that it nearly had its own awareness. In a single moment, he saw the ponderous dance of continents clashing against one another to form mountains, felt the slow sleepiness of the earth, its dreaming shivers felt as disasters by the ephemeral things that lived upon its skin. He saw wealth and riches beyond petty mortal imagination, gold and silver flowing hot in rivers, precious gems by the millions being born and formed.

If he had only seen that much, he might have been left frightened, disturbed even, but unharmed and all the wiser for it. But he had absolutely no idea what was going on, and no way to escape the power he was drowning in.

That power had been building up as a pressure behind Harry's eyes while the images flashed in his mind's eye. Really, he hadn't noticed it – until now, when it finally reached some critical metaphysical mass, and his brain contorted.

Thoughts turned into a harsh explosion of images and memories that left long lacerations on the inside of his skull. His muscles and bones screamed with sudden pain while his vision went red and flickered with spots of black. Static electricity crackled, bright green and painfully sharp, jumping from his hands to the surrounding floor, and then back again. His head pounded like it had been hit by a Bludger, and his lungs felt like they had been filled with Bubotuber pus.

He felt something crawling around on his upper lip and in an almost dreamlike state, he reached out his hand to brush it off.

His hand came back, dripping with bright red blood.

As Harry looked at that blood, he realized that his legs weren't working quite right anymore. He was telling them to straighten up, but they kept on buckling underneath him.

And the ground was quite close to his face, too.

His last sight before the blackness in his vision consumed everything was a pair of spotless leather loafers, running towards him as fast as they could.

He felt Namshiel stirring within the depths of his mind, and then he knew no more.

* * *

Someone rapped on his skull, and Harry cracked one eye reluctantly open.

A dark, inscrutable, intense eye face filled his vision, and he yelped. The someone snorted and the eye and withdrew, allowing Harry to get a better look at the man to whom it belonged.

He was of innocuous height, five eight, maybe five nine. His dark hair was plaited in a long braid, despite age that seamed his features like bronzed leather under a scarlet sun, warm and worn.

"Your nephew will make a full recovery, Wizard Peabody," the man said, standing up. "He's pretty lucky; most apprentices who did something that stupid wouldn't have escaped so lightly. He must've managed to pull out at the last minute."

A different voice snorted in the background. "Heh. I know one that would've done something like that."

"Yes, you fat hillbilly, you do, since it happens every few decades. I'm sure your last apprentice did it too. That doesn't mean it is a good idea."

The other voice harrumphed.

"Drink?" the first wizard asked, holding out a chilled glass of water.

Harry gratefully accepted. His mouth felt as though it were full of rock dust.

"My sincerest thanks, Wizard Listens-to-Wind," interrupted Peabody. "He is my sister's son, and I should have been put in a very awkward situation if I had to explain his sudden demise."

"Think nothing of it," Listens-to-Wind said, waving a hand. "It is my duty and privilege to aid a child in his time of need."

Harry began to surreptitiously swing his legs off the sofa he was laying on. Listens-to-Wind caught him, though.

"Easy," Listens-to-Wind said. "Easy, easy, son. You can't just walk something like this off."

Harry reluctantly allowed the old man to push him back down onto the couch. It was really a rather comfortable couch, padded with something like velvet, and made of a hard black wood.

"You tried to investigate a ley line. I'm sure you didn't mean to, but you did so unprepared, and that will cause some lingering effects. Don't go doing magic for at least a day, or you could hurt yourself."

"A day, Joe? For youngsters like this, that's a lifetime. What is your name, boy?"

Harry looked around for the source of the second voice. It proved to be an old man sitting in a chair in the corner. He wore an old pair of denim overalls with a flannel shirt and rather tatty leather work boots. He was aging, even by wizard standards, as his head was bald except for a fringe of downy white tufts, and a bristling white beard covered his mouth and jowls. He stared at the Harry through wire-rimmed spectacles, one foot slowly tapping the floor.

"Harry," Harry replied. "Harry Potter."

The old man smiled. "Harry, hmm? That's a good name. Strong, solid name."

Harry shrugged. It was merely a name. Better than some, worse than others. He did not define himself by it.

"I'm Ebenezar," the man continued. "I'm sort of the nominal head of security for Edinburgh whenever I'm around. And a member of the Senior Council, though I don't like to talk about that."

Harry paled. suddenly realizing he had not just wandered in to the lion's den - he had all but stuck his head into its mouth.

The Senior Council. The ruling body of the White Council, composed of wizards with centuries of experience and skill to back up enormous amounts of raw strength.

Namshiel had once told him that the Senior Council itself wielded more power than all of the Wardens combined. The man next to him could crush him with a word. Not that the man would, he reminded himself– he had done nothing wrong so far. Just stupid.

Still, it was like sitting next to an active landmine.

"Sir," Harry managed, trying not to tremble, "it's an honor."

Peabody nodded approvingly at him.

Ebenezar snorted. "Don't give me any of that rubbish, Harry. I don't like all the kowtowing and nonsense that goes along with the title. Just think of me as another wizard, until you pass the tests."

Harry nodded and relaxed. Slightly.

"Anyway, what had your uncle told you about the Hidden Halls?"

Harry considered. Basic would probably be best, lest he accidentally reveal something that was not common knowledge.

"It's the, um, headquarters for wizards? For about five hundred years or so?"

Ebenezar smiled. "That's as much a most apprentices are told. But there are other reasons why we have our headquarters here. The Auld Rock is one of the world's largest convergences of ley lines. Do you know about those?"

Harry did not.

"Ley lines are the natural currents of magical energy running through the world. They are the most powerful means of employing magic known to man—and the lines that intersect in the earth deep below the Auld Rock represent a staggering amount of raw power waiting to be tapped by someone skilled or foolish enough."

Ebenezar paused here to look significantly at Harry. He squirmed uncomfortably.

"But, like Injun Joe said, every so often we get an apprentice that sticks his nose where it doesn't belong and messes with one of the ley lines. Sometimes they don't make it out of the mental contact as quite the same person. But Injun Joe said you're good, so that's that.

"I didn't say that," Listens-to-Winds responded irritably. "I said he needed rest, and shouldn't go around using magic willy-nilly for the next day or so. You opened yourself up to a ley line, Harry, and to the power of that line. It flooded your body, pushing out most of your own magic. I drained off most of the excess before things went too far, though, so there shouldn't be any lasting effects. You know how much that messed him up, Ebenezar; even you can sense it."

"I was trying to downplay it," Ebenezar scolded Listens-to-Wind, "but now you've gone and ruined it. We don't want to scare the kid to death. 'Sides, you were done anyway."

The Native American threw his hands up into the air.

"You rush a medicine man, you get bad medicine. In any case, my work here is done. I've got to go see Luccio for her weekly. Good to meet you, Harry Potter."

Injun Joe stood up and left, his moccasins making nary a sound on the cold stone floor of the Hidden Halls.

"Anyways. As head of security, I have to approve your continued presence in the Hidden Halls. You've already been through all the checkpoints, and Mai's statues seem to think you're all right. Wizard Peabody vouches for you, and Injun Joe said he looked at you when you were sleeping. Couldn't really see much after the ley line, of course (he said you looked like a rock), but nothing too concerning."

"Yay?" Harry tried.

"More or less," Ebenezar chuckled. "Had it been otherwise, we would be having a very different conversation right now. Probably in a cell, with a black bag over your head."

Harry gulped. He knew only too well the methods of the Wardens – Namshiel mentioned that they had executed two of his previous hosts in the past, before the Accords had been drawn up.

"Still standard practice, though, to require a promise from a guest to do no harm while here."

"A promise?" Harry asked warily. "That doesn't seem like a very good protection."

Some of the cheerfulness went out of Ebenezar's face.

"We're at war, son, and nobody around here has much trust to share. Words don't cut it; it must be an oath on your power."

Harry lifted his eyebrows. Oaths and promises had a certain kind of power all their own - that was one reason they were so highly regarded among the beings of the supernatural community. Whenever someone broke a promise, some of the energy that went into making it feeds back on the promise breaker. For most people it was little more than a minor annoyance.

But when a more powerful being or a wizard swore an oath by his own power, the effect was magnified significantly. Too many broken oaths and promises could cripple a wizard's use of magic, or even destroy the ability entirely, which was why no-one did so; to break the oath would be to reduce one's own strength in the Art.

Well, Harry corrected himself, _almost_ no-one. He vaguely recalled that Namshiel mentioned such oaths could be carefully circumvented, and Harry knew that Nicodemus had outright broken at least one such oath. Still, were he to be found out by the Wardens, such a promise would effectively limit him to attempting to flee.

But then again, he thought, he had entered the Hidden Halls in the true spirit of the Warden's words: he meant no harm to those within Edinburgh, nor did he plan to start a conflict. He came only for knowledge; not even particularly protected knowledge at that. It was only useful to a handful of people.

It was a gamble he had to make. He tried to do what he thought Namshiel would have wanted. It was strange, though, to not have his mentor's voice gently guiding him towards the best choices.

"Um," Harry said, glancing at Peabody in mock concern, "is that okay, Uncle?"

"Certainly, Harry. You may trust any of the Wizards here, especially the Senior Council."

"Wouldn't be too sure about that," Ebenezar muttered. "Swill-spouting pack of lollygagging skunkwallows, most of 'em. Anyway, here's what I need you to say . . ."

Harry readily took the required oath, hoping all the while that he'd never have cause to try and circumvent it. It was quite comprehensive.

"By the power invested in me and things," Ebenezar said, as soon as Harry finished, "I do permit thy presence here. Be welcome in the seat of the White Council. He's all yours, Peabody. Don't encourage him to touch any more ley lines, please."

Peabody spluttered. Ebenezar slapped his thigh, laughed, and then heaved himself out of the chair he had ensconced himself in. He stumped over to Harry and ruffled his hair, and then he too was gone.

"Goodness gracious me," Peabody said. "I think that's quite enough excitement for one day, Apprentice Potter. If you'll follow me, I can show you my office, and the archives where I work."

It took them the better part of half an hour to get to Peabody's office, during which time Harry decided he did not like the Hidden Halls. They were lonelier and emptier than Hogwarts. Their footsteps echoed hollowly back from stone walls for minutes at a time, unaccompanied by any other sound.

Harry followed Peabody into an immaculate office lined with shelves bearing books arranged with flawless precision, grouped by height and color. Many of the shelves were loaded with binders presumably full of files and documents, similarly organized, in a dazzling array of hues.

"The color coordination is most impressive. Your own design?"

"But of course. I cannot bear untidiness, and so I keep my office a bastion of order. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that I'll have to send you to the archives to fetch me some records, and that that is not a tidy place. I think what I want is in the sixth century section, though that hardly narrows it down. Here is a list of what I want, and here is a map. Off you go; the trapdoor right there leads to the Hall of Memories."

Harry walked over to the trapdoor, set in its own little alcove opposite Peabody's office, and peered down.

It looked to be a long way down.

* * *

"Belphazar," Harry murmured. "Bellington. No, no."

The Archives of the White Council were vast. They occupied several cathedral-like rooms deep beneath the main tunnel complex, each holding records of serval centuries.

That was convenient, of course, but three centuries to a vault did little, relatively speaking, to narrow down Harry's search. The sorting within the vault was virtually nonexistent; some were sorted by title, others by author, and yet others by subject or approximate date. Far, far more lacked any form of organization.

That was when Peabody's map and note came in hand. The map was a rough outline of the Archives, showing which rooms corresponded to which centuries, and what parts of the archives were sorted by what. One of the rooms was circled, and something was printed next to it in a minute hand – presumably that of Peabody.

Unfortunately, that wasn't of much use, as the writing was much too hard for Harry to make out, as bad as his eyes were. No matter how close he held the map to his face, he simply could not make it out. So he had tucked it in the back pocket of his pants, and examined the note instead. Four words were scrawled upon it

 _Sangreal. Sixth Century, Niviane._

Those words had led him here, to the oldest pats of the archives – which also happened to be the least organized of the archives. No-one had been in this room in decades, he could tell; most likely, most of the records here were now irrelevant. No books of magic or council secrets were contained within; only the records of the sporadic council meetings, budgets, and expenditures.

Harry shivered. It was cold down here, even colder than in the tunnels, though it was not damp. He supposed that it might have been an attempt to better preserve the books. It wasn't working very well if it was, for dust lay heavy upon the floors and shelves, disturbed only by the tiny footprints of mice and other pests.

He'd been down there nearly three and a half hours, and he was growing impatient. He dared not use magic to try and find the book – far too risky – so he was reduced to searching by hand.

Harry grumbled to himself. Nicodemus would be getting impatient, and he did not want to keep him waiting. Though he hadn't actually hurt Harry thus far, the threat of violence always loomed over him.

If Harry infiltrated Edinburgh successfully, but still failed to produce what Nicodemus was searching for . . .

Well. He could only imagine that the results would not be pleasant.

A new section of books caught his eye as he turned a corner into a small nook. They were all bound with some sort of silver thread.

Could these be the records he was searching for?

He carefully removed one of the tomes from the lowest shelf, and blew the dust off of it. He opened it gently – despite having been constructed of parchment rather than paper, the pages looked as though they might have crumbled at a touch.

They weren't in English, though; at any rate, not English he could understand. Since they dated back to the seventh century, they were likely in some dialect that bore little resemblance to the current once.

The ink stood out blank and stark against the yellowed pages. The first few were blank, so Harry began to flip through them, hoping to see some word he recognized.

 _There._ Niviane. So that was, at least, a start.

Harry combed through the rest of the silver books until he found one that had the words 'Sangreal' and 'Niviane' on the same page. He hissed in satisfaction. It was a safe bet these were what he was looking for.

Harry began flipping through that book, not even trying to read what was written there. He simply focused on each page long enough for it to appear as a sort of picture, and then went on to the next. It wasn't his job to translate the passages. That was Namshiel's specialty.

Harry tucked the book under his arm, and began the long trek back to Peabody's office. It was best to be sure, just in case.

* * *

"Did you find what you were sent for?" Peabody enquired of Harry almost as soon as he made it over the lip of the trapdoor.

"I think so," Harry managed, wiping the cobwebs away from his sweaty, grimy forehead. "It had the words I was looking for, at least. Silver covers?"

"Perhaps. I believe so, from what I've read in the logs. Did you bring it with you?"

Harry nodded and produced the book. Peabody snatched the proffered object, and peered through his spectacles at it.

"Old Brythonic ," Peabody pronounced. "An untidy language. Yes, this does appear to be relevant to your search based upon the parameters I was informed of. It's unlikely that you would find anything more on such a topic. The White Council has grown too distant from the Church, I'm afraid."

"Might I take it with me?" Harry inquired.

"Absolutely not. That file is official property of the Senior Council, and you do not need it anyway. Now, come. I'll see you through the gates."

* * *

Harry Potter breathed a sigh of relief as he came out from under the gloomy, oppressive canopy of the trees. It was good to be out of immediate danger. There was always the risk that someone would look into it, and realize that Peabody had no immediate family, but that would then be _his_ problem, not Harry's.

He had the sudden, intangible impression that someone nearby was waking up from a nap and stretching.

 _Good morning, Namshiel_.

 _All went as planned?_ the Fallen enquired.

Rather than take the time to explain what had happened to him, Harry showed him the locations of the relevant memories. He began walking as Namshiel sifted through them.

 _You acted most foolishly in dipping into the ley line, Harry_ , Nicodemus scolded, and Harry flinched.

 _But,_ Namshiel continued, his voice becoming less harsh, _it might have turned out for the best. Though you have taken up my Coin, you have made only limited use of Hellfire, and our powers are virtually impossible to detect. Nor have you broken any of the laws with true-magic, and so does not bear the telltale taint of dark magic that the Council is familiar with. But there was always a chance, no matter how small, that they might have sensed my presence within you. That was why I had you wear the manacle._

Ah, yes. He'd forgotten about that.

Harry reached down, removed a small, hinged manacle with dozens of tiny teeth from his ankle, and pocketed it.

 _But you said they looked upon you with the Third Eye, and still saw nothing particularly troubling. Normally, they would have seen something of me in you. From what the wizards mentioned in passing, it sounds as though the traumatic experience with the ley line dramatically altered how you should have appeared. You were one with that ley-line, for a short time, and it was the power of the ley they saw. It will fade within a few days' time, but it was still most fortunate. Be glad that they did not soulgaze you, for I could not hide from such a thing._

"Yes," Harry agreed. "I could almost sense the power of the Council, Namshiel. It was palpable – the air trembled with it."

 _So it is for all beings of power, unless they choose to appear otherwise. It was a foolish thing Nicodemus did, in deciding to send you into that nest of vipers._

"But perhaps worth the risk. What did the book say?"

Namshiel was silent for a few moments, and Harry could feel the Fallen reviewing his memories.

 _Much,_ he replied at length, _and yet little. None of the information is what Nicodemus most desires, but it may aid him – aid us – in our quest._

* * *

Nicodemus Archleone was sitting at a small black cafe table near of St. Giles when Harry finally found him. He appeared to be feeding a small flock of pigeons, scattering crumbs for them and watching them fight amongst themselves.

"Mr. Potter," he said, without turning around. "And Namshiel as well. How did things fare? You seem to have escaped the lions' den unscathed."

Harry sat down in the only other chair available.

"Well," he began, but then Namshiel cut him off.

"There was some trouble. Harry was injured by a magical backlash, but nothing too worrying. The trip yielded something of substance."

"Indeed?"

A series of pages flashed past Harry's eyes as Namshiel spoke once more, this time apparently reciting the translated contents of the book.

"Point of order, raised by Senior Council Member Niviane – non-wizards have no place in a closed meeting. Immediately overruled by the Merlin; they are there in official capacity, as representatives of the Holy Church, or the Venatori Umbrorum."

"A union of powers," Nicodemus murmured, his eyes narrowing. He held out a crumb for a particularly bold pigeon to snatch. "Proceed."

"There are some further objections, but eventually the representatives ask for White Council aid in order to find the Sangreal. Aid is eventually given, by order of the Merlin, who agrees to accompany them personally on their quest."

"That," Nicodemus said, leaning back, "is not as useful as it might be. Still, it gives us another lead. I had not even considered the Venatori. I had not thought that the Church would ally with such as they. The representatives of the Church; who were they?"

"Perceval, Gawain" Namshiel paused, " . . . and Arthur."

Nicodemus crushed the crust of bread he was holding to dust.

"A Saint and a Knight of the Cross. Well, well, well. Is there anything else worth mentioning?

"One of the Senior Council members mentioned something about not wishing to provoke Lord Oberon by rejecting the request of his son."

"He did always dote upon Arthur. I really must congratulate you, Harry. I don't know another child of your age who could have done this. Who was your contact in the White Council?"

Peabody's name was on the tip of Harry's tongue before Namshiel ripped control of his vocal cords back.

"LaFortier. I'm not sure if I'll be able to use him again, though. It looked to me as though Ebenezar McCoy suspected something was afoot. LaFortier has been toeing the line for years, in secret, and the Blackstaff has a habit of taking things into his own hands."

"Quite," Nicodemus agreed, taking a sip from a cup of tea he had on the table. "I still remember Krakatoa, and Ortega's fate is still on half the supernatural community's minds. A pity – a member of the Senior Council would have been a useful ally. Still, that was all we should need from the Council in the future. We shall need to meet again tonight; Urumviel and Johnson have been doing investigations of their own."

It only occurred later to Harry that neither he nor Namshiel had never told Nicodemus they had help getting inside.

 _A/N: Reviewers were curious as to potential pairings. Quite honestly, I haven't given it much thought. The fic basically does not diverge from Dresden canon up to and including Skin Game, so I'm unsure if Deirdre is a suitable partner._

 _Actually, scratch that. I'm certainly cruel enough to do such a thing. But the Nicodemus-Deirdre-Tessa relationships are a bag of cats I do not want to open, 'cause the rating would go up to X pretty fast. We'll see._

 _But Deirdre isn't the only female Denarian out there, either. Plus, there are Whampires, and Fey, and Butcher knows what other evil femme fatales. And some races from the Potterverse that actually have some interesting roots in the Dresdenverse. I'm sure I'll think of something. And romance will be an extremely minor subplot, though, and wouldn't happen for some time._

 _Also, whatever made you think Namshiel wouldn't approach Peabody? Let the conspiracy theorizing commence._


	12. Chapter 11: The Way of Pain

Chapter XI: The Way of Pain

Harry was rather glad that his time in the Hidden Halls was over, brief as it might have been. He felt lighter than he had in days, ever since Nicodemus had given him his assignment. Stress had been slowly building on his shoulders, and both the extreme tension of meeting the Senior Council members and the incident with the ley line had exacerbated it.

He had been looking forwards to a few days of peace and quiet, without the need to fear for his life.

Of course, given that he was once more among his fellow Denarians, such things were out of the question. Nicodemus maintained tenuous control over the vast majority of the Denarians, but without the Princes or the Lightbringer to force them to unite, there was always a risk of conflict. Sometimes, the Denarians would fight among themselves, and while such encounters were rarely fatal, Harry suspected he was still too young to stand up to any but the weakest of the Order.

That was why he had Jeeves with him. His presence, Harry realized as he walked through the factory door, gave him no small amount of comfort.

The room was now dark, the lights dimmed, and there was a disturbing metallic tang to the air. Harry vaguely recognized it from his time at Hogwarts, but he couldn't quite place it.

Nicodemus clapped his hands, and one of his human followers hurried over. Nicodemus asked something in an undertone. The man nodded, pulled out a notepad, scribbled something on it, and then passed it to Nicodemus.

Nicodemus scanned the notepad in an instant, his dark eyes flickering too quickly for Harry to see. He returned the pad to its owner, and then turned back to Harry.

Harry's insides turned to ice, and he positioned himself for a quick escape. Then he felt Jeeves place a hand on his shoulder, and he relaxed slightly.

Nicodemus Archleone's face was thunderous, his eyebrows like brooding storm clouds. He was pressing his lips together so hard that they were turning white.

Something, Harry supposed, had not gone quite according to plan.

Nicodemus strode quickly towards the stairwell at the far back of the room, his shadow billowing behind him. Harry was forced to run to keep pace with him.

Down they went, a full three stories below the ground. Down past the bedrooms he had been staying in, and down past a closed door. Firelight flickered at the tiny crack below the door, and cast strange, misshapen shadows onto the floor. Choked, slavering growls could be heard within.

Harry sped up his pace a little more as he went past that door. He had absolutely no desire to learn what, exactly, was behind it.

Well, if he was being completely honest about it, he did. Then he would remember the horrible grandeur of the ley line, and the unspeakable pain that followed. Such things did a marvelous job of keeping his curiosity in check.

The door at the very bottom of the stairs was made of some sort of silvery metal, and it was locked from the outside. Harry was fairly sure it wasn't steel; it didn't gleam quite right. Extensive wards had been woven into it, making it extraordinarily durable and resistant to energy.

Harry reached his hand out and carefully brushed his senses along the wards. Whoever had cast them had been no novice, for the magic was more delicate than he himself was yet capable of.

Strangely enough, the magic rather reminded him of his own; there was the vaguest hint of what he knew to be Hellfire simmering sullenly in the runes.

 _The work of Polonius Lartessa_ , Namshiel informed him. _Nicodemus' wife, Deirdre's mother, and a former student of mine._

 _Is she dangerous?_ Harry thought back. He felt the faintest stirrings of . . . jealousy? at the idea. It rather shocked him, to be honest. He already knew himself to be Namshiel's best host in centuries, and that really ought to have been enough.

Yet it was not.

 _Would she be dangerous here? Now? To you? Very, though your natural gifts in the Art dwarf hers. She is no penny-ante sorceress, mind you; long centuries of practice and use have forged her talent into something even Wardens would be very wary of._

The two Squires on guard drew back as Nicodemus released the series of bolts on the outside of the door and threw it open so hard that the concrete wall cracked. He stalked inside, fury radiating from every inch of his frame. Harry followed him, careful to stay out of his way.

Harry gagged when he entered, and covered his nose and mouth with a sleeve. The room reeked of sweat and burnt flesh, and tickled unpleasantly at his throat.

It rather reminded him of the late Professor Quirrell.

The heat beyond was almost unbearable, probably made so by the roaring fire in a sort of oven on one side of the room. Several short metal poles lay in a brazier to one side, their ends warming in the fire. In the furthest, darkest corner of the room, a stream of water fell from the roof, splashed over a set of metal cuffs, and disappeared into a grate in the floor.

Several stainless-steel tables lined one wall of the room, rows upon rows of toolboxes and what looked like tackle boxes set out upon them.

Johnson was standing in one corner next to the fire, his brawny arms crossed over his bare chest. Said chest was heaving, and the man was shiny with sweat. He appeared to have been exerting himself considerably.

Urumviel was nowhere to be seen; it was possible that he had either not yet returned, or that he was sleeping. The Fallen slept a rather lot – Harry hypothesized it was because he did not have to exert his control over his host body while doing so.

Nicodemus made a beeline for Johnson. Harry noticed that the larger man's body language instantly became defensive and wary.

"Tell me," Nicodemus said, his voice sharp and clipped, "why you so recklessly endangered our presence here."

"I did what you told me to," Johnson ground out. "I nabbed us a vampire. Is somethin' wrong with it?"

"The vampire is not an issue. No-one would have missed it – by staying in England, that nest practically signed its own death warrant. The girl, however, is an issue. I do not recall asking you to abduct a Warden of the White Council."

"It's a long story, and it was too good a chance to pass up."

"Enthrall me," commanded Nicodemus, "with your acumen."

"The nest was at the address you gave me, but when I got there, Wardens were already swarming all over it. They weren't pulling any punches – I guess they didn't want to risk having a nest so close, even if they're kinda at a cease-fire with the Reds. One of them had already blew a hole through one side of the manor."

Johnson looked nervously at Nicodemus and licked his lips. Nicodemus gestured for him to proceed.

"I had to move fast to grab the master vampire. He was holed up in the cellars way below the main house, and just throwing waves and waves of blood serfs at the Wardens, trying to swamp them with numbers. I don't know how he turned so many, let alone supported them. When I got to him, this chick had already breached the vault, and she was duking it out with the master."

"And she spotted you?"

"Yeah," Johnson said, shifting uncomfortably under Nicodemus' glare. "I ripped the vault door off its hinges, so it was pretty damn obvious. The vamp got distracted when I did that, and she got his legs. Then she turned to me, and tried to broil me. I was going to kill her, but then I realized Potter probably wasn't going to make it out of Edinburgh in one piece, so I knocked her out so you could interrogate her."

"A peon like this will know nothing, as you would have deduced by thinking for a second before acting. Knowledge of the kind we seek is concentrated in the Senior Council and the oldest of the Wardens. She will know nothing of what Harry was sent there to find."

"Maybe. But we could always find out something about troop movements or something and trade it to the Reds for an item you want. And I figured she might have known a secret way into Edinburgh if Potter couldn't find one."

"Would you be willing," Nicodemus murmured, voice dangerous, "To stake your life on that?"

Johnson balked at the question, and looked around the room several times before he replied.

"Yeah. Yeah, I would. The Reds aren't picky; they've been paying out of the nose for third or fourth-hand information. They'd pay a fortune for a real, live Warden. A little bit less for information straight from one. And I'm pretty sure the girl knows something, and she knows that she knows it."

"Since she's been here," Nicodemus decided, tapping a finger against his lips, "I'm afraid that trading her to the Red Court is quite out of the question. We don't want anyone knowing too much about our little operations. Hopefully, she was of negligible significance, and the Wardens will not try to investigate further. The wards here should thwart any casual attempts at locating her. If we are very lucky, they may already suppose that the master vampire either killed her or turned her and fled, and I am quite content for them to continue thinking that."

"We could still trade in information. Not bad for a quick job, right?"

Nicodemus' eyes sharpened at Johnson's casual tone, and his voice frosted over.

"Let me make this very clear, Mr. Johnson: the next time you disobey me in such a fashion, merely because you wish to snub a rival, I shall discipline you accordingly. And that was precisely what happened here – do not lie to me, or attempt to conceal your motives. You took a Coin when I offered it; now, you follow me. Am I understood?"

"Sir," Johnson said, backing away. Nicodemus turned away from him, and looked towards the odd table-like devices that dominated the center of the room.

"But we have guests here that I have sorely neglected. Johnson, have you made any progress with either of them?"

"Some with the Warden," Johnson told him. "She passed out a little while ago. The vamp is pretty far gone as it is. The magic she used cauterized the wounds, but we'll have to find him some blood before we start on him, or he'll die on us."

"Then the bet was hardly fair. I think we'd best wake the Warden up again. I'll send a squire out for the blood," Nicodemus decided, striding towards the tables. Harry and Johnson trailed behind him. Jeeves maintained his position at the door.

Harry had been intentionally trying to avoid looking at the people on the tables. Namshiel supplied him with a series of choice images that flashed across his vision, apparently in an attempt to cure him of his delicate sensibilities, but all it did was make him want to vomit.

A blobby black something was chained to one of the three tables. It had two arms, no legs, and had a face vaguely resembling that of a bat.

Harry, being the master of logical deduction that he was, decided that was the master vampire that Johnson had caught.

 _A Red Court Vampire,_ Namshiel informed him. _A member of the lesser nobility, and quite insane to have remained in the United Kingdom during the ongoing hostilities._

 _Hostilities? What hostilities?_

 _Do you remember that tale_ _Mr. Jeeves told you, a tale of a masquerade and a wizard? It was intended to educate you about proper etiquette in the magical world._

Harry had to think for a moment, but he finally managed to coax the memory out of the dusty corner of his brain where it had been hiding.

 _Yes, but I thought it was just a tale for magical children, not real._

 _It was real; very real. It began a war that has lasted for nearly several years now, and tremendously destabilized the magical world. The Red Court,_ Namshiel judged, _has the upper hand at the moment._

 _The security at Edinburgh didn't seem appropriate for a war, though_ , Harry thought back.

 _It was; you simply did not notice it_ , Namshiel said, the faintest hints of condescension entering his tone. _Moreover, you were vouched for by a standing member of the White Council, and are a child. And not a vampire in the shape of a child, either. They checked for that._

 _Really? How?_

 _The golems, and thousands of more discreet spells lining the corridors. Even if you had managed to get through those, you wouldn't have gotten very far with a mixture of holy water and distilled sunshine in your belly._

Harry remembered the glass of water he had partaken of during his recovery and blanched.

 _Indeed. The wizards are not wont to attach gift-burdens to such things as Fae are, but they are not above poisoning them, either. Remember that._

Harry promised that he would, and looked at the other table.

It was occupied by a girl of perhaps thirty years of age. She was Asiatic, and rather pretty. Or, Harry supposed, at least she used to be. Now charred black stripes adorned the skin of her face, like meat fresh from the grill. He thought he could make out the white of teeth through one particularly deep burn on her cheek, and his stomach roiled in protest.

He looked over to where irons were glowing orange in the brazier.

So, it was to be torture, then. He thought he could cope with torture – or rather doing the torturing. If it had to be done to show his loyalty to Nicodemus, then he'd surely do it, and do it well.

Also, he gathered from the visions that Namshiel thought it something of an art form, and Namshiel was not to be disappointed.

Johnson looked on impassively, arms folded as Nicodemus slapped the Warden lightly across the face. She didn't stir, and Nicodemus sighed.

The Denarian rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, hauled an iron from the brazier, the tip glowing orange, and ground it into her bare shoulder. Foul-smelling steam hissed up, fat spat and sizzled, and the girl woke up with a terrible scream.

Harry averted his face from the horrible tableau, and began scuffing at a dark mark on the floor.

The Warden saw them all standing there, and she began babbling something in a tongue Harry was not familiar with.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nicodemus remove the iron and slap her across the face once more, asking something in the same language.

The girl spat at him, scoring a direct hit on his face, and Nicodemus' eyes went flat.

"If we had Lasciel, or even Malthaiel, things would be considerably easier," Nicodemus observed, wiping the spittle from his face with a kerchief.

 _No, they wouldn't_ , Namshiel said crossly. _Lasciel is notoriously fickle, and does not work well with me. Nor do purest terror and deepest despair assist in anything more than driving others into a catatonic state._

Harry noted that Namshiel didn't say that out loud, though.

Nicodemus walked over to a table, and opened one of the toolboxes.

As the lid was pulled back, the many trays inside lifted and fanned out, displaying the tools in all their gruesome glory. There were blades of every size and shape, needles curved and straight, bottles of oil and acid and more mysterious substances, nails and screws, clamps and pliers, saws, hammers, chisels. Barbed fishhooks and coils of razor-edged wire lay side by side. Pairs of barbed handcuffs lined the lid of one box. Metal, wood and glass glittered in the bright lamplight, all polished to mirror brightness and honed to a murderous sharpness.

Nicodemus proceeded down the row of boxes, opening them all. Racks of glowing potions hung in some, next to what Harry suspected to be holy water. Vials of dust and pastes lay in delicate holders. The functions of some were horribly obvious to the budding young potioneer, the functions of others were horribly obscure. For example, one box contained nothing but dozens of globes of crystal. Tendrils of some shadowy substance pressed against the glass, desperately seeking some way out.

 _Mordite_ , Namshiel told him. _Deathstone. Terribly expensive, and incredibly rare. It is of little use save in torturing those who are not immediately disintegrated by it. And Nicodemus never has occasion to do so, save perhaps once or twice a millennia. It has greater use as a weapon._

The poor woman was scared absolutely witless, Harry knew. He could see it in her eyes, and he had seen a similar fear often enough in the mirror after his nightmares.

"Then again," Nicodemus said, "we have one among us not yet initiated in the subtle science and exact art that is persuasion. Step forwards, Harry."

Harry hardened his heart and tried to silence his roiling stomach as he did so. This grated on his soul, but in a different manner than killing Quirrell had. Quirrell's murder had been justified, and he had not been particularly bothered by the fact that he killed the man. Instead, he had been bothered by the recognition of his own mortality that the act forced upon him.

The torture of this innocent girl, though – perhaps a little over a decade older than Harry -seemed just _wrong_. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He forced such thoughts to the back of his mind, and tried to pretend that the Warden was not an actual person. Such softness could not be allowed free reign; he knew what was required of him, and he knew that such weakness would be his undoing.

Harry did not want to think of the doubts and uncertainties that seeing the pitiable woman before him brought to the surface of his thoughts. He had made his choice almost a year ago, though he had not known it at the time; a choice to continue along the dark, twisted path that Namshiel directed him along, to accept that he was not told everything, and simply to obey without question. He had no desire to doubt again; he did not want to think of anything that would deflect him from his purpose.

He was Harry James Potter, he reminded himself, Host to Thorned Namshiel, and he was _beyond_ such petty things as moral concerns.

He met Nicodemus' gaze. He knew the leader of the Order was waiting patiently for him to walk over to the table.

"What would you have me do?"

"The teeth, I think," Nicodemus mused, "are a good place for a beginner to start, as she isn't likely to die of blood loss if you make a mistake. Crack out the teeth above, and leave the teeth below. Alternate it by cracking out the teeth below and cracking out the ones above so that every remaining tooth touches the opposing gum."

"I don't know how to crack teeth. I am no dental surgeon, Mr. Nicodemus. What if I mess up?"

"Well," said Nicodemus, handing him a tiny chisel and a wooden mallet, "there are plenty more where this came from, and you'll have many decades to practice."

Harry looked down at the tools in his hands. They were the tools of a carpenter, a creator, pristine and unstained.

It was, he thought, rather ironic that they should now be turned to this purpose.

 _I will finish what I've started. No matter the cost._

Harry took a deep breath and went to work.

A fortnight had passed, and Harry Potter could not get the sounds of the Warden's screams out of his ears nor the smell of blood and burning flesh out of his nostrils.

It was a small enough price to pay, he supposed, in order to be a Denarian.

The Warden had talked, of course. She had screamed and babbled and cried out in her foreign tongue until her voice gave out and she made a horrible noise like a goose. By the end, even Nicodemus could decipher nothing from the noises she made.

Namshiel had not seen fit to translate for Harry's benefit, but Nicodemus had been pleased by whatever answers her suffering had produced. He had ordered Harry to kill the Warden once she broke completely. It seemed to be a last test of his loyalty.

It had been easy, this time. A single deadly spell, provided by Namshiel and uttered while clutching her jugular vein, had cut off the flow of blood to her brain.

And there was no guilt. He felt light, powerful, purged after the act, as though he had done something he had been waiting desperately to do. It scared him, the euphoric rush of power, and . . . the faintest taste of an odd, delectable pleasure. Perhaps it became easier to murder the more often you did it.

Or perhaps he felt no guilt because he knew he had been doing the Warden a favor.

Johnson had tossed her body in the Thames. It would probably turn up in a month or so. He could imagine the headlines in the news: _Body Found Floating by the Docks!_ _Bloated by Water and Horribly Mutilated!_

His morbid fantasizing came to an end when a spotless white glove shoved a steaming mug of tea under his nose.

"Your tea, sir," Jeeves informed him. "Mr. Archleone should be arriving at any moment."

"Very good, Jeeves," Harry said, almost automatically. He took a sip of the tea. It was really quite good, and he found the hint of chamomile in it rather soothing.

Quiet footsteps echoed up the stairwell, and Nicodemus came up from the dungeon, Deidre trailing behind him.

"Despite Johnson's many flaws," Nicodemus remarked, sinking into the leather of his office chair, "I find myself rather pleased with the results of his impetuousness. The girl was rather useful in her own way, and Count Lopez was most forthcoming once we broke out the flaying knives."

Harry did not want to think about knives, and he did not want to think about the Warden. But Nicodemus did not know, and Harry doubted he would have cared if he had known, so he continued.

"You took the torture remarkably well, for a child of your age. To be fair, Deirdre was more enthusiastic about it when she questioned Saint Sebastian. Have you any concerns? Second thoughts about your oath? Questions?"

"I meant every word I said," Harry snapped, shaking himself out of his depression. "I don't care what it takes; I'll show the rest of the world that I'm worth something, that I'm no weakling to be trodden upon, no freak to be laughed at. The only way to do that is through you and Namshiel. I'll not stray from my path."

Nicodemus' hooded eyes never left his as the man nodded.

"Quite so. Raise a child up in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it. Still, were you not curious as to why we were questioning the Warden when you had already completed your infiltration of the Hidden Halls?"

"You said for troop movements."

"Johnson said that," Nicodemus gently corrected him.

"I don't like Johnson," Harry muttered. "He is dangerous, and I know he doesn't like me either."

"How unfortunate. I said to him, and I say to you: I do not tolerate fighting among my Denarians, unlike my wife. Johnson has no defense against some of the magics Namshiel can show you. Do not be tempted to misuse them; if he should die of mysterious causes, or with his heart ripped to shreds, I shall blame you, and punish you accordingly. And you cannot hurt me with those sorceries."

Harry started.

 _Is that true?_

 _Yes_ , Namshiel admitted _. Nicodemus cannot be killed, save by the Knights of the Cross, and the holy swords they bear. He is wholly indestructible, though I know not how._

Harry made another note to never, ever, get on Nicodemus' bad side.

"Mr. Johnson has his uses, though, not unlike you. Did I ever mention where he came from?"

"Los Angeles, I think. Isn't that in America?"

Geography had never been his best subject, and they didn't teach it at Hogwarts.

"Yes, it is. Mr. Johnson has significant power in the Southwestern United States, and his power base is in Los Angeles. He is allies – good friends, even – with many members of the Red Court, something which he believes I know nothing about. He transports narcotics from Red Court manufacturing facilities in Mexico and distributes them in Los Angeles. That relationship has made him a target for the regional commander for the Wardens, whose name escapes me."

Harry nodded, though he did not believe for one instant that Nicodemus did not remember the name.

"Ramirez," Deirdre purred from where she had draped herself across a seat. "Carlos Ramirez. An ally of Dresden's."

"Thank you, my dear. The Red Court offered him significant aid, but it all came to naught when a Warden team raided one of the dens when Johnson was present. I saved his life in the ensuing pursuit, and he jumped at the offer of a Coin."

"If he is friends with the Red Court, why do we have one mutilated, tortured, and strung up in our basement?"

Nicodemus chuckled at that. Deirdre merely rolled her eyes.

"Count Lopez was officially disavowed by the Red Court almost two years ago, after ignoring repeated orders to withdraw to friendly territory. He refused to leave Britain, in other words. He had grown to like it here, and had already developed a sizable force, from what Johnson mentioned. Moreover, he was a blood addict, and therefore useless to war effort. There was a standing order out for his head, and Johnson will have curried favor with the Red Court by disposing of him. I knew of the price on the Count's life, and that is why I let Johnson choose the target. I merely specified that it needed be someone with access to a great deal of information, which Lopez was. He is only three or four centuries younger than me, and he used to be a Duke before the blood lust overcame him."

"Johnson's not half as clever as he thinks, then."

"He was not wrong, though," Nicodemus pointed out. "I do acquire and sell information to various members of the supernatural community – for a price. When I am not busy with my own agenda, that is."

"For a price?" inquired Harry, toying with his tea. "As in, for money? And what agenda is this?"

Nicodemus laughed a deep, rich laugh at that, a laugh that set his shadow a-flickering behind him.

"Not quite. Money doesn't mean as much when you've two millennia of compounded interest shoring up your accounts. No, I take my price in favors, to be paid at a later date."

"And what about our agenda?"

Nicodemus was quiet for a long moment, absently playing with his grey tie. His shadow leaned down and hissed something in his ear, but he waved it away, and then spoke.

"It is only fitting that I explain both in a parable, as our Enemy is so fond of doing so. This is a story my father told me, long ago."

"Father _adores_ this story," Deirdre put in, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers. Harry found it rather distracting. Her hair was very shiny.

"Hush, you," Nicodemus said, the picture of paternal indulgence. "In ages long past, when the great demigods still walked the Earth, there were three who were more famed than the others: Orpheus, the renowned bard; Hercules, the son of Zeus, and Ulysses, the trickster. No heroes had been as wronged by the Fates as these three men. There was a price to be paid for their greatness, for their tales. Hercules had been cursed by Hera, who went to the Fates, and demanded that he forever be fated to kill those dearest to him. Ulysses, for his part, had been shunned by the gods, made to wander the seas for many years as his home was laid waste and his wife cheapened by suitors. Orpheus, in his turn, had lost his beloved wife."

"They were greatly saddened, for though glory was theirs, the cost was equally great. Ulysses, on a quest to plant an oar, had much time to think about his fate. By-and-by, he came across Orpheus, who was weeping on a fallen tree. Ulysses asked what so ailed him, as it was not befitting that a man should shed such tears. Orpheus then told him of his great loss; the gods had granted him a voice beyond the compare . . . but they had taken the woman who was the song in his life. Ulysses saw that this man had also paid a price, and he said unto him, 'Come, walk with me a little further, for we are much alike, you and I.'"

Nicodemus' voice, deep resonant voice (with the faintest hint of a rasp to it) made Harry drowsy. He allowed his eyelids to droop nearly shut. He could see the men in the story now, outlined against an arid grassland. One bore an oar over his shoulders and was clad in simple, scarred bronze armor. The other figure was smaller, dressed in a cloak of many colors, and he carried a worn string instrument at his side.

"Presently, the two tortured souls came upon a man, grievously ill. His mighty sinews had wasted away and an unclosed wound oozed puss. They also inquired after the identity of this giant. The man answered that he was Hercules, son of Zeus, and the man most hated by the gods. Then Hercules told them of his own labors, and of the deaths of those he held dear, and they expressed their sorrow at his suffering."

"Afterwards, Ulysses rose to his feet before the others, and there was fire in his eyes. He told them that it was not right that others should decide their fate. The gods decreed it, and the Fates wove it, but what right had they to do so? There ought to be no fate, he claimed, but that which men made with the strength of their arms and the sweat of their brows."

Harry agreed; how could he not? He had once not been the architect of his own fate, when he lived with the Dursleys. Namshiel had freed him; his chains had been broken.

"The others agreed, of course, with the mighty orator's honeyed words, but what could be done? The gods were beyond the power of mortals, and they cared not for their suffering. It was then that Ulysses proposed a most audacious plan. They would ensure each man could weave his own fate . . . by making sure that the Fates could not. They would steal the tools of the Fates and give them to man, just as Prometheus stole fire from the gods."

"Many long seasons, many trials and tribulations it took them to reach it, but finally they stood before the gates to the dwelling of the Fates. It was said that so heavy was the burden of the gates that no man could open them – but Hercules was more than a man. With a mighty groan, he heaved the gates open, allowing the others to pass. He was forced to bear the burden until they returned. They found the Fates at their loom. With much arrogance, the Fates demanded to know their purpose there. Ulysses beguiled them with honeyed words, yet even his tongue could not lull them into false security. So Orpheus took up his lyre, and he played them a melody that lulled them to sleep. As soon as they began to doze, Ulysses went to their tools. From them, he took the shears, so that they could not cut the weave. From them, he took a thread, so they could not make the weave. And from them," Nicodemus finished," he took the whorl, so they could not spin the thread."

"Free will," Harry breathed, suddenly opening his eyes. "You fight for absolute free will, for actions without punishment. You still fight for what caused the Fall."

"I suppose that you could say that. We," Nicodemus said, with perfect serenity, with absolute certainty, "are fighting to save the world."

Harry could not tell whether he was telling the truth or not, so he turned to his oldest friend and greatest to separate fact from fiction.

 _Is he telling the truth? Is that what we are fighting for, Namshiel?_

The response was slow in coming.

 _That is what Nicodemus is fighting for, yes._

Then Harry knew he would help Nicodemus, insofar as he was able. As long as Namshiel agreed, of course, though he didn't know why his Fallen wouldn't. There had been vague references to some past misdeed, and some mistrust, but that seemed to have evaporated after his recent mission.

"Johnson had already returned to America," Nicodemus told him after a long pause in the conversation. "Apparently, the Warden there has launched a campaign dedicated to removing Johnson's businesses, and this threat requires his personal attention."

Really, Harry couldn't have cared less about what Johnson did. He hoped the man would get himself killed, though he rather doubted it. Nicodemus did not offer Coins to weak imbeciles, and while Johnson may have been an imbecile, he was not weak.

No, he was far more concerned with his immediate future. It seemed wrong, somehow, to return to his normal life after what he had done in service to the Order of the Blackened Denarius. Almost as if he were a filthy vagrant entering some exquisite mansion.

"What should I do now, Mr. Nicodemus?"

"Tessa and Magog are off in Africa, stirring up trouble. I believe they're in Rwanda right now, and that is no place for a schoolchild like yourself. Not yet, at any rate. Deirdre and I have the situation here in the United Kingdom well in hand, and Urumviel is staying with us for the nonce. I do not know where Rosanna is – most likely looking for recruits. I believe, Harry Potter, that you are free to do as you please for the rest of the summer."

"Is there _nothing_ for me to do here? Summer will be so _boring_ after this."

 _If by 'boring,' you mean the absence of immediate threats to your life or well-being, I must agree. You can hide nothing from me, my host; false bravado does not become you. You did not enjoy what tasks Nicodemus gave you, but you performed them flawlessly nonetheless, and that is more than enough. Enjoyment will come in time._

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief. Namshiel has seen what troubled him, but had not found him wanting.

"There is something you could do for me, though, Mr. Potter."

Harry's attention snapped back to Nicodemus, who had swiveled his chair away from Harry.

"I invested a rather significant amount of capital in Grunnings, your uncle's company. I should like you to make sure that your uncle understands exactly who he would cross, should he attempt to swindle me."

"It would be," Harry smirked, "my very great pleasure. Can I bring Urumviel?"

"Absolutely not," Nicodemus' voice floated back. "We are not looking to raze a city block. Nor does this have to be done immediately; simply visit them before the year is out."

"Humph."

 _I think you will find Mr. Jeeves a more than adequate substitute for Urumviel._

Namshiel had decided that they would not visit the Dursleys that day. Once past his initial disappointment, Harry quite agreed with him. It was already quite late, and he was very tired.

They did not stay at the warehouse. Jeeves had made other arrangements for their accommodations. It was a fair drive to their new lodgings, but that was perfectly fine. It left time, he thought, for questions.

 _Questions,_ Namshiel sighed at him, _questions. Man did ever seek to improve his knowledge through them. But knowledge is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to._

Harry had a great many questions, and he tried to sort them into some sort of coherent order before beginning. It was not easy; there were far too many, and they covered a great many topics. So he decided to start off with the most important ones first.

"Why did I go to Edinburgh, Namshiel? What information was Nicodemus looking for?"

 _Clues as to the whereabouts of the Sangreal,_ The Fallen said. _You might know it as the Holy Grail._

"The cup from _Monty Python_?" Harry asked, fiddling with his seatbelt. It was too tight, and it was beginning to irk him, but it refused to let him loosen it. The mechanism had somehow become jammed.

 _What species of snake is that?_

There was an awkward pause as Namshiel rummaged through his memories.

 _I see. The same, though I suggest you not treat it so lightly. That cup is the strongest symbol of the Enemy's power on Earth. Its power is immeasurable; not for nothing does he claim the title of Almighty._

"What do you suppose he is going to do with it?"

 _I'm sure I don't know_ , Namshiel told him. He didn't sound at all interested in the artefact. _He'll come up with something suitably dastardly, no doubt. I personally believe the cup to be a trigger, of sorts. A very important cog in a much larger machine_

Fine. That was more than enough information, and it didn't sound very important, nor particularly pertinent to Harry himself, so he switched topics.

"I'd like to know why I saw a wand-wizard in the art in Edinburgh."

Namshiel heaved an enormous sigh at him, and Harry could feel his weary resignation.

 _I suppose it is long past time that I told you some of what I know of the interactions of wand-wizards with the rest of the supernatural world. It is a relationship deeply rooted in their origins, and to understand it, you must understand that wand-wizards are, to be rather blunt, an accident. An anomaly, if you will; one of chance breeding and magic and emotion that shall never occur again in the life of the world."_

"How do you know that?"

After all, Harry thought, wand-wizards continued to be produced at a regular rate. Perhaps the gene that carried magic was dominant, and allowed wizards to marry Muggles, but still have magical children. Or maybe Namshiel meant a similar act of creation.

 _Because one of the parties involved was unique, and he is dead,_ Namshiel sniffed. _No-one shall ever take up his mantle._

"Who?"

 _Oberon; the King of the Wyldfae._

"Oberon?" Harry could have sworn he had heard the name recently, but he just could not seem to place it. "The Faerie King from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_?"

 _You heard the name when I spoke to Nicodemus; the White Council records noted that to refuse Arthur's request for aid in finding the Grail would also offend Oberon – something the council would not dare do. But yes, Oberon was truly immortalized by the Bard. A fitting epitaph for a fallen monarch, arranged for him by his grieving lovers. He was, you see, Consort to both Summer and Winter alike._

" _Both_ Summer and Winter?" Harry was, quite honestly, incredulous. From all he knew of them they were anathema to one another. Cold and heat, life and death, predator and prey, love and hate. Co-operation was impossible.

 _They are, and he would eventually pay the price for those dalliances. But that is a story for another time, and one you could not comprehend the scope of without having known what it was like before his death. More relevant to you is the fact that he was the distant progenitor of wand-wizards._

"What? Do you mean to say that I am _Fae_?"

Such a thing was not possible. The Sidhe were immortal and powerful and beautiful beyond compare, and wand wizards were not. Long-lived, certainly, but not extraordinarily so. And not beautiful, either; he knew that from the mirror.

 _All wand-wizards are, to an extent . . . and yet they are not. I see_ , Namshiel said, his voice sounding far-off, _both faint echoes of both Sidhe power and wizardry within you. Your genealogy is thus: Oberon lay with Titania, and they produced Arthur, who cast aside his role in Faerie to rule as a King among men. The only Fae to every wield one of the Swords, if I remember correctly. But Oberon also lay with Mab, and they begot Merlin, thrice blessed and thrice cursed; a wizard, when there should have been a Sidhe. Perhaps it was because Oberon was always closer to being a human than any other High Sidhe. It matters not. Arthur was seduced by the sorceress Morgan of the Fey –_

"But wasn't he a Knight of the Cross?"

While Namshiel was formulating a response, Harry finally gave up on the seatbelt and began biting at it. Jeeves turned around and gave him an absolutely murderous look, so he ceased his efforts to gnaw himself free.

Sometimes, he mused, it was almost as if his manservant had eyes in the back of his head.

 _He is, but did not David also lay with Bathsheba? Was he not forgiven, and a man after God's own heart? Add to that that he was enchanted by her, and the Enemy was quick to pardon him. In any case, their union produced Mordred, the most vicious changeling to ever walk the earth. Around the time of Mordred's conception, Merlin also became intimate with Nimue of the Summer Court and had a child by the name of Niviane, who Mordred took by force many years later. The offspring of that violent act was the first wand-wizard._

There was a long silence. Not even the sounds of the motorway could be heard- the noise-proofing of the Rolls was superb.

"That," Harry proclaimed, "sounds really, really complicated, and much more information about relationships than I needed."

 _I am sure that your delicate sensibilities shall recover_ , Namshiel remarked dryly. _Nonetheless, that is how the breed of wizardry you know as wand-magic came about._

"And it was an accident?" Harry pressed.

 _A freak happenstance. It is not unheard of for the Queens to have Changeling children, but wand-wizards have inherited only the magic, and not the essence of Faerie, from the Queens. From the Merlin, the one of the most powerful wizards to ever live, and from Morgan le Fey, you received the gift of wizardry. There was a blending, a melding, and the two became one. I suspect Oberon's blood had something to do with it, and the violent conception of the first wand-wizard. Probably the fact that Arthur was a Knight, and that he was seduced as well. Intent and emotion often alter such things. There is a greater chance of spontaneous combustion._

"If he was Consort, Oberon must have been rather powerful, and you've told me of the strength of the Queens. But how strong was Nimue?"

 _You are correct in your assumption; Oberon held the position of the current Erlking, among others, but was far more powerful than the current incumbent (who used to be his most trusted servant). He was, in every way, an equal to the Queens. Nimue was to Titania as the Leanansidhe is to Mab. The Lady of the Lake, some called her._

Very powerful, then. Harry wondered if she was still alive; Namshiel had never mentioned her when speaking of the Courts, though he often spoke of the Leanansidhe.

And that made him wonder . . .

"Why don't the wand-wizards ever talk about that? For the matter, why don't they ever interact with the Council or the Courts?"

 _The isolationist nature of the Wizarding World is not entirely a self-imposed one, whether they know it or not. They were forbidden from migrating to other continents as part of the strictures laid down after the Battle of Hastings, and discouraged -almost outright forbidden – from interacting with the other supernatural nations. Those that disobey do not survive long. So long as you keep to yourselves, you remain under Mab's aegis, and to a lesser extent, that of the White Council. The existence of wand-wizards is a closely guarded secret, and such secrecy is your chief defense. Only a select few among the Senior Council remember your existence_

"It seems rather unlikely," Harry pointed out, "that _no-one_ knows about wand-wizards, and the wand-wizards know about no-one else."

 _People believe want they wish to believe, and there are a great many predators who would hunt your kind if they attempted to break the strictures, knowingly or not. The Black Court, for instance, consider wand-wizards a delicacy. I rather suspect that your Statue of Secrecy was intended to protect you from far more than just Muggles, though it has failed miserably in that regard. The Black Court are well-acquainted with you, however, and the Faerie Courts maintain a strong presence here, though direct interaction is discouraged. Your kind has always dismissed them as sub-humans, and they are content to let you believe that._

"Like the centaurs in the Forbidden Forest?" Harry asked. He hadn't ever seen the reclusive creatures, but Hagrid had once spoken of them to Hermione whilst Harry was nearby.

 _No. Those are Grecian centaurs, not Faeries._

"Then we can hardly be called a secret, can we?"

 _I suppose not. It has more to do with the fact that no-one really cared enough to bother with you. There are countless small factions that share a similar fate. The Ddraig, many of creatures from Native American folklore, and almost every werewolf pack in existence, to name but a few. You are more sheltered than most, but then again,_ _after Hastings, no-one wanted to deal with your kind, and they lacked the power, political clout and unity to form a nation when the Accords were drafted. Since that time, the memory of the other supernatural nations has begun to fade. There was a considerable magical tinkering involved, and unless I miss my guess, no few alterations made to time, in order to achieve and ensure the anonymity that you now possess. The anonymity is a little too convenient, and the Merlin was notorious for his meddling ways._

"But why?" Harry asked, puzzled. "What happened at Hastings?"

 _Next question, boy_. It did not sound like a request.

"Well, I was thinking of how we got into Edinburgh - "

 _Yes? And?_

"How do you know - "

Harry had wanted to say Peabody, but he found himself unable to speak. His throat constricted, and his tongue rolled back on itself so far that he feared he would choke on it.

 _Do not speak that name_ , Namshiel warned. _Not aloud. No-one can enter your mind without my being aware of it, but the shadows have ears, Harry. And they answer to a man I would rather not discuss such things with. Suffice to say, Peabody is an old friend of Mr. Jeeves, and a more recent acquaintance of mine, through another mutual friend._

There was a tone of finality about those words, and Harry knew better than to pry.

Mr. Jeeves pulled up in front of a dull little cottage. It was covered in ivy, and contrasted horribly with the pristine splendor of the Rolls-Royce.

"This is not", Harry decided, pushing his nose against the window, "where I thought a Lord would live."

 _That title was given to me a long, long time ago, by one who was unaware of my true nature. It has been three centuries since I had a proper estate, and I have not missed it. I find that such possessions mean nothing; they are empty, hollow, and speak only to the vanity of the owner. This dwelling was acquired quickly, discreetly, and cheaply, but is also fit to live in._

"I suppose anything would be better than the closet at Number 4 Privet Drive."

 _You might be surprised where you must stay while in your line of work._

 _And up to 'M' we go._

 _It is worth mentioning, for the sake of clarification, that True-Wizards are the wizards from the Dresden Files. Wand-Wizards are those from the Harry Potter books. The term 'wizard' may be used interchangeably to describe them. Harry Potter is both a wand-wizard and a true-wizard (though he lacks a great deal of training, he has the raw power needed to pass the Council Trials.)._

 _Finally, we have something of an explanation as to why no-one in the Dresdenverse has heard of wand-wizards. It may seem a tad unrealistic to some, but think about it: the wand-wizards are relatively small in number (in this fic, anyways; I'll be taking advantage of the notoriously poor maths skills of Rowling), with a total population numbering well below the half-million mark, and quite probably much less than that (I'll be doing further research into that quite soon). They're powerful, in their own way, what with things like the Killing Curse and other combat spells, but they might just find that those don't work so well on things that aren't human, or those that are immortal or do not age. Let alone Immortals. They aren't active players on the world stage, either, and are far too divided to apply pressure to anyone if they were._ _As such, no-one really cares much about them._

 _There are thousands, probably even millions, of different mythical creatures from all different parts of the world. In the Dresdenverse, they all are supposed to exist – and think of how few we've heard of! It's not realistic, of course, to expect Mr. Butcher to elaborate on them all, or even mention them, but that works out quite well for this fic. The factions we've heard about in the Files are the big players, but there are countless more living out their lives (or unlives) in comfortable obscurity. The wand-wizards are one of the most obscure, thanks to the united efforts of some of the most powerful beings on the planet, and it'll stay that way._

 _For now._


	13. Chapter 12: Who Enters My Domain?

Chapter XII: Who Enters My Domain?

Jeeves liked kitchens. There were lots of nice, sharp things in kitchens.

So, no matter where Namshiel, Harry, and Jeeves stayed, one thing remained the same: the kitchen was the sole province of Jeeves. This was not negotiable. Even Namshiel, at the height of his power, would never have dared try to roust Jeeves from the kitchens.

Not that he would have ever had any reason to, of course. Jeeves took pride in his cooking, and every meal he served was fit to grace the dining tables of Buckingham Palace. Had he wished, he knew he could have made a living in the restaurant industry. That was not his place, though. His place was by Namshiel's side, and there he would stay.

After all, there was no way his master could have done without him.

Tonight, he had decided to make a fricassee of beef and a French silk pie to go along with several other dishes he had already prepared.

Jeeves opened the icebox and retrieved the neatly packaged meat. He supposed that it was very convenient that one could simply go and buy meat from the local store. No-one looked at you twice, even when you ordered sixty or seventy pounds in one go.

But there was something . . . missing there. Jeeves was from an era when a man procured his own meat, and normally by hunting. There was no thrill of the hunt, no spark of energy, no joy in watching the life fade from the terrified prey's eyes.

Still, he decided, unwrapping the package, it filled one's stomach. He could hunt at some later date.

He hummed happily to himself as he inspected the meat with the eye of both a veteran chef and a gourmet (if he dared say so himself). It was a little on the plump side, but he could pare much of that off without difficulty. It was a problem that was becoming more and more common with cattle as time went on. Probably because they weren't fed right.

It was still cold, and fit for the young master's consumption. He slapped it with the palm of one hand, and nodded, satisfied, at the resulting sound. Good and bloody, too. Most excellent.

Jeeves carefully slid the whole mass onto a cutting board, set the bloody paper to the side for later, and carefully washed his hands. There wasn't much he or Harry could get ill from, mind you, but it would still be revolting and unbecoming of his reputation as a butler to maintain anything but the highest standards of hygiene in his kitchens.

He reached for his nearest instrument. It was a meat cleaver, and a large one too. Good for paring meat off the bone, and the chunks of fat off the meat before going in with a finer, smaller blade to get the remains.

He indulged himself for the briefest moment by toying with it, tossing it up in the air with one hand and catching it nimbly between finger and thumb of the other. He did so adore cleavers.

Then he set to his work, carefully removing the meat from the bone with several careful, heavy strikes. He pushed the meat into two different piles: one could be easily used for cooking as it was, but the other would need to have significant amounts of fat and gristle removed first.

Jeeves set the bone to the side. He could make an excellent soup with that.

He had just set down the cleaver for a smaller knife when a small pop startled him and he whirled, knife at the ready. No-one was at home except for him; the young master was out at the Alley.

An empty kitchen greeted his suspicious gaze. Another butler might have turned around, but Jeeves knew he had heard something.

He took two deep sniffs of the air, savoring the delicate blend of blood, onion, and garlic.

"Who," he rumbled threateningly, "dares enter my domain? Show yourself, brownie!"

A startled squeak sounded from his left, and a grey blur tumbled off the top of one of the cabinets. It bounced right up after hitting the floor, though, and he found the oddest little creature looking up at him with bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls.

"Harry Potter!" the house-elf squealed, causing Jeeves to wince. The piercing noise irritated his extraordinarily sensitive ears. "So long had Dobby wanted to meet you sir! Such an honor it is!"

Jeeves stared warily at the creature before putting down his knife and discreetly picking up the cleaver. He turned back to the meat, and placed it on a different counter so he could keep an eye on the house-elf while working.

"Dobby is wondering though," it continued as Jeeves sliced away, "why Harry Potter is so grey? He is being greyer than Master before he uses his squeeze bottle on his head."

Dobby's eyes suddenly went wide as headlights, and he ran over and began banging his head against the side of the ice box, shouting, "Bad Dobby! _Bad_ Dobby!"

Jeeves' eyes narrowed, and his lips curled back from his unusually sharp teeth as he watched the wretched little insect _dirty his spotless kitchen_. His hand clenched involuntarily around the handle of the cleaver, causing him to accidentally slice a gash in his free hand.

He allowed his lips to tighten slightly in reaction, but he simply held still a moment, and then turned to the elf, which appeared to have exhausted itself for the time being.

"I am not," he told it, "Harry Potter."

The elf hung his head, then looked back at Jeeves.

"You is not Harry Potter, sir?"

"No, I am not, as I told you only moments ago."

"But Harry Potter's name is being on these envelopes, sir," the elf protested, drawing forth a wad of envelopes. "So Harry Potter must be being here. Does you know where he is?"

Jeeves did not immediately reply. Instead, he tossed his cleaver high; flashing as it spun, it arced around a ceiling light and landed handle-first back upon his outstretched finger.

"Oh, yes, Dobby. I know where the young master is. But that is neither here nor there. The question is, why are _you_ here? Tell me, and I might be able to persuade Master Harry to see you."

"Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later. . . Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts."

"Why?"

"Harry Potter must stay where it is safe. He is too great, too important to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger!"

"Enough of your riddles!" Jeeves snapped, temper dangerously close to fraying. "Speak, whilst you still have a tongue!"

Dobby whimpered, but valiantly shouldered on.

"There is being a plot, sir. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year. Dobby has known it for months, sir! Dobby has come here to make sure Harry Potter does not return and put himself in peril! He is too important, sir!"

"My Lord is more capable than you can possibly conceive, and the young master is under his direct protection. Answer me this, vermin: what danger do you speak of?"

But there was no response; Dobby only twisted his ears and banged his head against one of the cupboards containing the better china. The topmost shelf of china suddenly collapsed in a spray of porcelain.

 _The Royal Doulton with the hand-painted periwinkles! And at forty pounds apiece, no less!_

"Dobby is so sorry!" Dobby squeaked, ceasing his banging. "Dobby can make it better sir, once he knows where Harry Potter is!"

Jeeves' blood roared in his ears, and he adjusted his grip on the cleaver.

"Tell me, Mr. Dobby," he said, almost conversationally, "are you here by order of your master or mistress? Do they know where you are?"

Dobby managed to shake his head before jamming his fingers into his nostrils and yanking up sharply.

Jeeves chucked the cleaver casually to his right hand and spun it around his fingers, slowly moving closer to Dobby.

"Fascinating. I was under the impression house-elves could not act without permission from their masters. Tell me, Dobby, have you been intercepting _all_ of my master's post?"

Dobby gulped and nodded.

"One more thing Dobby, and I'll make sure Master Potter sees you; did you cross our threshold uninvited?"

"Threshold, sir? Dobby is not knowing of any thresholds, sir. May Dobby see Harry Potter now, sir?"

"Oh, yes." Jeeves smiled, baring his teeth in a most frightening manner. "We just need to take care of a few things. You can't see him in that state, I'm afraid, and I need a few more answers."

 _Perhaps_ _Osso Buco is in order instead_ , he decided as he advanced on Dobby.

* * *

"That was most upsetting," Harry Potter decided, toying with the fork next to his plate.

Jeeves had prepared what looked to be a delicious meal – something that Harry had looked for to, after a long day spent under the tutelage of Namshiel. The Fallen had decided to begin instructing Harry in the more complex offensive magics, some of which he used himself. It was mentally and physically exhausting.

His manservant had also ruined said anticipation by telling him of Dobby's incursion.

"Yes, sir," Jeeves said, covering a belch with his hand. "Pardon me. As I was saying, I find elf very upsetting."

"That's quite enough of that, Jeeves," Harry scolded, folding his napkin on his lap. "If you keep that up, I won't be able to eat that divine-looking amuse bouche."

"My apologies, sir."

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," Harry went on, looking at Jeeves (who looked completely unrepentant), "it was very disturbing that the creature was able to make it past both our wards and threshold. Do you know how?"

"No, sir. Insofar as I am aware, it is the case for both wards and any wand-charms. The creatures can almost completely avoid them, and even Apparate past Anti-Apparition Charms. The threshold, though . . . he was not able to avoid the consequences of going past that. By doing so, he forfeited every defense he might have had, and much of his magic. If one knows how to use the threshold against them, they present no threat."

"Evidently," Harry observed. "A cleaver, you said? And it used no magic?"

"No, sir, it did not. I told not it to use magic in my home, and it obeyed, though the fact that the cleaver was stainless steel may have had something to do with that."

"Did the elf tell you anything of use?"

"Nothing too terribly specific, sir," Jeeves responded, creasing his brow. "Merely that you ought not return to Hogwarts, for there was some terrible plot afoot there."

"Doubtless he refers to Professor Snape. I am convinced that the man intends to murder me there before my seventh year is out."

"His behavior is rather untoward, sir. Should I have a chat with him?"

"No!" Harry shrilled. The last thing he needed to deal with was the suspicious death of Severus Snape. He moderated his tone. "No, most definitely not. In all seriousness, though . . . have you any idea to what danger he referred? I have no desire to repeat last year's events, terribly thrilling though they might have been."

"None, sir. Might I suggest you simply attend, and should any considerable danger arrive, you can return here? After your work this summer, I believe that you can handle much of what the Wizarding World has to offer."

Harry was about to dismiss the idea out of hand when he paused and realized that there was no reason to do so.

Hogwarts, he knew, was the premier wizarding school of Britain, and quite possibly the most famous one in the world. Admittance was restricted solely to inhabitants of the United Kingdom, and few wizards, whether pureblood or muggleborn, would dream of going anywhere else. All that most needed to know they would either learn on the job or at Hogwarts.

Harry Potter was not most wizards. The arts he learned from Namshiel were too precise, too delicate for most any wand-wizard to try and replicate – not that they could, of course. Namshiel eschewed the use of wand magic. It was quicker and easier on average than true magic . . . but not capable of the heights of power to which the greatest true magic could rise.

Oh, there were avenues of wand-magic that interested Harry, but they were things that Hogwarts did not teach. He learned of them only through passing reference in the most advanced books of the Restricted Section. He was quite sure Namshiel knew wand-spells and magic so powerful that Harry knew he would never be able to fully grasp their scope, but the Fallen never deigned to teach him such things.

It was an unpleasant reminder of his inadequacy with wand-magic. But all that Hogwarts taught was wand-magic. And if he was learning nothing useful . . .

"It seems a sound plan, Jeeves, though I begin to regret attending Hogwarts."

"Indeed, sir? Do you care to elaborate?"

"I went there last year expecting magic. I was not disappointed. The castle, the classes, the teachers – all of them are certainly magical. But I have great difficulties with wand-magic, and they teach nothing I can think of much use to the Order."

"Most schools don't teach hormonal teenagers prone to mood swings how to torture and kill with magic, sir."

They ate quietly for a long time after that. Harry was the one to finally break it.

"It's very good, Jeeves, though I am certainly glad that you prepared mine separately from yours. Out of a rather morbid curiosity. . . how does your Osso Buco taste?"

"Even the best cooking and seasoning can only do so much, sir."

"I see."

* * *

"Shall you be wanting the Rolls, then, sir?"

"I suppose so. Diagon Alley is some distance away, and I've not yet learned to Apparate properly. Won't, I suppose, until I'm a Sixth Year or so."

Harry had promised to meet Hermione and Ron in Diagon Alley, ostensibly for the purpose of shopping. Not that he intended to shop – Jeeves did that for him. A person of his station did not mingle with mere mortals unless extraordinary circumstances required it.

Nor would he have ever admitted it to anyone, but he had a creeping suspicion that Jeeves had a far better sense of fashion that he did. It was rather sad, really.

"You've already purchased all my things haven't you, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir. It is all folded and stowed in your trunks, with a Moth-Repelling and a Pine-Fresh Charm placed inside. Your schoolbooks and materials are also stowed properly."

"What about Beelzebub? How's he?"

"Quite well, sir. He has upgraded his living quarters to a glass box."

Harry supposed that there was little to do, then, save follow his friends around as they made their purchases. It would be rather nice to act like a normal, carefree child.

Jeeves shattered any such hope with his next words.

"Now that you're a proper Denarian now, sir, I think Lord Namshiel will want you to have this."

Jeeves produced an odd-looking black key from one of his inner pockets. It stood out sharply against the flawless white of his gloves.

He handed it to Harry, who very nearly dropped it. The blasted thing was impossibly heavy for its size. He looked at it more closely. It didn't look like any metal he had ever seen. It was darkest black, and shone with a bloody inner light.

"What's this to, Jeeves?"

"A vault in Gringotts, sir. Lord Namshiel's."

"And what is in that vault?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir. I would hazard to guess that there would be little in the way of riches in it, though. You'll have to ask the lord."

 _It would be prudent_ , Namshiel decided for him, _to visit the vault, simply to make sure it has not been breached. It is not to be opened at this time. There is nothing of much use in it, but several things that could wreak some havoc if released._

"Right ho," Harry said, pocketing the key. "To Diagon Alley, then."

* * *

For the life of him, Harry could not find Ron or Hermione. He thought that perhaps they were simply late because of transportation issues or some such. So he seated himself at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream and sat there, scanning the crowds for them.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then a full half an hour, and Harry was beginning to wonder if they'd begun shopping without him when someone yelled his name and he turned.

"Harry! HARRY!"

They were there, both of them, walking over from the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, both waving frantically at him. Ron looked to have grown almost a foot over the summer, making Harry feel positively tiny by comparison.

On the bright side, he reflected, his friend would make a good meat-shield.

"Finally!" said Ron, grinning at Harry as he stood up. "We went to the Leaky Cauldron, but they said you'd left, and we went to Flourish and Blotts, and Madam Malkin's, and - "

"Jeeves got all my school stuff last week," Harry explained. "That'd be why."

"Oh," said Hermione. "Who is Jeeves?"

"He's my butler," Harry informed her.

"You have a butler of your own? Wicked, mate!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Trust me, Ron, when I say it is not all it is cracked up to be. Jeeves does what he wants, not what I want. He is also incredibly terrifying."

"He's a butler," Ron protested. "He's like a Muggle house-elf. How terrifying could he be?"

Harry thought back to the _decidedly unique_ Osso Buco Jeeves had cooked and consumed the week before, and he shuddered.

"You don't want to know."

"What's a house elf?" Hermione asked.

Thus, they began walking towards Gringotts, Ron explaining the concept of house-elves to an increasingly cross Hermione.

"So, you're telling me that wizards keep an entire race of magical creatures – of near human intelligence, no less – as slaves?"

Ron opened his mouth, apparently thought better of whatever he was going to say, and shrugged.

"I guess, when you put it that way. But the thing is, Hermione, that they're pretty happy with their lives. You should see one when its master threatens to free it – they go absolutely barmy. Hate to even talk about freedom, they do."

"Maybe that's just because they don't know enough about the concept, Ron."

"Maybe," Ron allowed, but Harry didn't think he looked very convinced. "Anyways, here's Gringotts. Where are your parents, Hermione?"

"They should be inside, Ronald, along with your parents. I told you they were going together not a quarter of an hour ago."

"Oh, right . . ."

The inside of the bank could best be described as organized chaos, Harry decided. It was crammed with wizards withdrawing money for the schoolyear. Those parents brought their children in, too, and little kids were running all around.

Harry half suspected that some parents might end up with changelings, if they irritated the goblins too much. From what he knew of them, the lesser goblins had always enjoyed swapping out Fae children with normal ones, simply to watch the ensuing chaos.

Harry spotted a small cluster of red hair over at one end of the bank, and he steered his arguing friends towards it.

"We must have a drink!" an older, red-haired wizard was saying. Harry assumed him to be Mr. Weasley, and the suit-attired gentleman he was talking to, Mr. Granger.

"What's that you've got there? Oh, you're changing Muggle money. Molly, look!" Mr. Weasley pointed excitedly at the ten-pound notes in Mr. Granger's hand.

"Meet you back here," Ron said to Hermione as the Weasleys and Harry were led off to their separate vaults by another goblin.

* * *

It was a rather different experience than his last at Gringott's. The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped along miniature train tracks through the bank's underground tunnels. Harry felt decidedly green all the way to the Weasleys' vault, and felt even worse when it was opened. There was a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into her bag.

Harry said nothing. The situation was a bit awkward, given the small fortune that his parents had left him. Of course, it was only in the wizarding world that he had money; you couldn't use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in Muggle shops. He knew that Namshiel was well-off in the mundane world, too, but the Fallen did not care for money; the only value it had for him was the loyalty it could command and the esoteric items it could buy.

That reminded him of the Dursleys, and he frowned. His latest meeting with them had been most disturbing. They'd been hospitable to the point of obsequiousness, even going so far as to invite Harry to stay for dinner. He supposed that it was only right that they had been nervous; Grunnings had seen a remarkably good year and incredible profits . . . none of which Namshiel or Nicodemus had seen a shilling of.

As it turned out, it had been an honest error on the part of Grunnings – neither Nicodemus nor Jeeves had left them information on how or where to pay back the money. Jeeves had been quick to rectify the error, though, and all had turned out well.

As it turned out, the Weasleys had a lot of shopping to do, and they took another returning cart to the surface while Harry proceeded to his parents' vault, from which he made a small withdrawal. Appearances had to be maintained, after all.

"Goblin," Harry said, pitching his voice high and cold. "I wish to make another stop."

"I stop where the teller tells me to," the creature snarled nastily. "You'd need to go back for verification. And no, don't try to bribe me. We draw and quarter those who do."

"It's very odd," Harry remarked slyly, "that you have no iron in your bank. No steel, either. One might think that you did not like the substance."

The goblin was not moved. "You threaten me with cold iron, or hurt me in any way, and you'll be stuck down here. A human could wander these tunnels for a hundred years and never find the exit."

Namshiel's mirth at his clumsy attempts at manipulation rang in his ears, and Harry gritted his teeth.

After a lengthy argument with the stubborn Faerie, Harry relented and allowed the goblin to drive him back to the surface, where he convinced the grumpy teller that he did indeed have access to vault six hundred and sixty-six.

 _I hope this is worth the time,_ he complained to Namshiel. _I could be out having fun with Ron and Hermione right now._

 _It is worth the time. It would be a disaster if the guardians of the vault were released; there wouldn't be a goblin left in Gringotts._

Harry swallowed. Great. That sounded in keeping with his recent lifestyle.

The goblin took them deep this time. Deep, deep down, to the parts of the bank where blind, nameless things still gnawed at the roots of the world in darkness, undisturbed by the Faerie invaders. Odd sounds echoed from little caverns and crannies off the side of the main rail; dripping water was everywhere, and Harry's breath misted the air before him.

He kept a close eye on the goblin. It appeared nervous, constantly scanning the dark entrances to the deeper caves. When it left the cart, it never turned its back on those black voids.

"Key, please," it grunted quietly.

"I don't wish to open it, only make sure the contents are secure."

The goblin made several uncomplimentary remarks about Harry's personal hygiene and probable ancestry before waddling back to the cart. It drew out a big curved knife and lay the weapon across its lap.

 _Is it secure, Namshiel?_ Harry asked, moving closer to the door. _How can I tell?_

 _You could open the vault door, and be dragged to the depths of Hell by one of Lord Leviathan's minions. They would delight in giving you an experience beyond limits . . . pain and pleasure, indivisible. If that happens, it probably hasn't been breached._

"I'd rather not, thanks."

 _Then place your ear close to the door, but carefully; it cannot be touched._

Harry did so. At first he heard nothing, but as his hearing adjusted to the absence of loud noises, he could just barely make something out. A rhythmic breathing, heavy and strained. Slurping, sucking, moving noises.

Something snarled and slammed itself against the door, which trembled. Harry jerked back, startled.

 _That would be the guardians. All must be well. Now, back to the cart before the little Faery dies of a heart attack._

Ron and Hermione were waiting for him outside Gringotts, and he was only too grateful for their company. Together with the bright summer's day, they almost managed to rid him of the unease the deep vaults had instilled.

Almost.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione strolled off along the winding, cobbled street. The bag of gold, silver, and bronze jangling cheerfully in Harry's pocket was clamoring to be spent, so he bought three large strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, which they slurped happily as they wandered up the alley, examining the fascinating shop windows. Such gestures brought a surprising amount of good will for only a small price, or so he had gleaned from Namshiel's lessons.

Ron gazed longingly at a full set of Chudley Cannon robes in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Harry noticed.

"You know, Ron, I don't think I ever gave you a Christmas gift, did I?"

* * *

 _The path to Hell is paved with good intentions._ _And also the bones of house-elves._


	14. Chapter 13: Murder Most Foul

Chapter XIII: Murder Most Foul

The term started off well enough, Harry supposed, in that it was happily uneventful. Jeeves had loaded all Harry's belongings onto the Hogwarts Express, bid him a fond farewell, and then gone off to do whatever it was that Jeeves did when his services were not immediately needed.

And after the incident with the house-elf, Harry decided that he really didn't need to know about what Jeeves did in that spare time.

He had decided to sit with Ron and Hermione and the puling Longbottom brat.

Hermione read. Longbottom became ill on the way, and was forced to go on a quest for the loo.

Harry and Ron had talked of Quidditch. Ron was trying out for Gryffindor this year, and he wanted his best friend to try out too.

Harry had maintained that the game was too dangerous for him to desire to play. Ron informed him that there was surprisingly little risk involved. Cushioning Charms were carved into the broom handles, and only impacts at many kilometers per hour could severely injure a wizard with a good broom.

"I mean," Ron had said, "it's not as though I'm _suicidal_ , Harry. I probably won't get hurt, and if I do, Madam Pomfrey could probably fix it. Unless I get bonked on the head with a Bludger -which the charms prevent from happening too hard, mind you – or I fall on my back, I should be fine."

Harry discreetly shot a look at Hermione after that. He knew that she still hadn't found any cure for her broken spine. Even the most gifted physicians at St. Mungo's had declined to attempt repairing the damage.

Magic could fix very nearly all injuries, providing the wizard was skillful enough, but side effects were a constant danger. The central nervous system was incredibly complex, and the damage to Hermione's was extreme. St. Mungo's had decided that they would be more likely to further injure Hermione if they set about attempting to heal the nerves in her spine.

They had repaired the bones, of course, almost as soon as they had stabilized her. The nerves were another matter altogether. They were essentially incapable of significant regeneration, so accelerated regeneration was right out. The only other options were total replacement using a new spine, or manipulation of the space-time continuum to reverse the injuries to her spine. Both options were incredibly dangerous, and the second patently illegal.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered exactly how much of a hand the White Council had had in creating the laws of the wand-wizards.

There were legends, myths, and folklore that Hermione had found, telling of wizards of yore healing similar injuries, but none yet remained with a similar mastery of the healing arts. There had been no call for them since the great wars of old, and so they faded away.

Harry had heard that even the Headmaster had told Hermione, very gently, that such magic was beyond him. His talents lay in other areas, and too much of the lore was lost for him to be willing to attempt any mending when dealing with such grievous injuries; ones caused by a magical creature, no less.

There were, of course, other options unknown to wand-wizards. Harry supposed that those were worth a look. But before he could expound on his theory, the compartment door slid open again and a breathless older girl stepped inside.

"I'm supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter," she said in an annoyed voice. She held out two scrolls of parchment tied with indigo ribbon. Perplexed, Harry and Neville (just returned from the restroom) took the scroll addressed to each of them and the girl swept out of the compartment.

"What is it?" Ron demanded, as Harry unrolled his.

"An invitation," said Harry, "inviting me for a bite of lunch in compartment C. Very odd; I have never even heard of this fellow, this Gilderoy Lockehart."

Namshiel snorted in his mind and withdrew until Harry could no longer feel his presence. The Fallen cared little for Harry's interactions with most of the wand-wizards. He seemed to think that they presented little danger or significance, a supposition with which Harry did not agree.

"Lockhart?" Hermione sniffed. "He writes loads of absolute rubbish; said rubbish is, unfortunately, our Defense Against the Dark Arts course material for this year. Most of the books are completely fabricated. I've no idea what he's doing here, though; last I heard, he was in Albania."

"He doesn't seem like the sort of person I should care to spend much time with," Harry decided, carelessly tossing the letter onto the floor of the compartment. "And his attempts at social climbing are simply ridiculous."

"But what does he want me for?" asked Neville nervously, as though he was expecting detention.

"I really don't know, Neville," Harry responded, choosing his words carefully, ensuring that they cut deeply. "I can think of nothing you are good for, either."

Why be so cruel? Because he could.

Neville's head slumped at that, and his lower lip started wobbling. Hermione gasped and began upbraiding Harry for his behavior.

Harry did not care for that, not one bit. Who was she to judge him?

Fortunately, he had a convenient escape.

"Nonetheless," Harry decided, standing up, "I might as well go and see why this Lockhart fellow is on the train."

He thrust open the compartment door, and began making for Compartment C. To his surprise, Neville trailed along behind him.

When they reached compartment C, they saw at once that they were not Lockhart's only invitees. The compartment had obviously been magically expanded to fit almost a score of people.

Draco Malfoy nodded at Harry from his seat (as far away from Lockhart as could be comfortably managed) and rolled his eyes.

He also recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall boy with high cheekbones and very, very pale skin. Across from him sat an older Hufflepuff named Diggs or some such; Harry really couldn't be troubled to learn his name. There were many others, though. Lockhart was evidently very new at playing this game; he had cast his net too wide, and also summoned those who were really of little importance.

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view over the heads of the surrounding students, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the children. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard's hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair.

He was obviously rather vain.

Gilderoy Lockhart had noticed Draco's nod. He looked up. He saw Harry. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, "Harry Potter!"

All eyes turned towards Harry, and he frowned intently at them.

Lockhart, oblivious to this, dived forward, seized Harry's arm, and maneuvered him into the seat right next to his own.

Harry rectified his earlier impression of Lockhart. He actually would have liked to spend a great deal of time with him . . . in the basement of the warehouse. Preferably with a red-hot iron.

"Children, children," he said loudly, waving for quiet. "Now that you're all here, this is the perfect moment for me to make the announcement you've all been waiting for! Ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this year – and this year only - I have taken up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

The compartment erupted in applause; everyone except for Harry and Draco seemed rather keen on the idea.

Oh, and Neville didn't clap, Harry noted, though that was probably because he looked completely lost.

After the applause died down, a dozen conversations sprang up all over the room. Speculation, anticipation, admiration – all of it centered around the man sitting in the center of the room.

Lockhart smiled and nodded genially at those around him before returning his attention to Harry.

"Harry, my boy!" he said, still smiling that damnable smile. "Tell me, Harry, how have you been? How is Hogwarts? Any -" (here he waggled his eyebrows in a manner Harry found most unsavory) "- lady friends?"

"I'm thirteen years old," Harry responded. If that didn't kill the conversation, nothing would.

As it turned out, it did not. Lockhart continued to pry into Harry's life and tried to maintain an easy familiarity of which Harry did not approve. Harry was above Lockhart's station, or so he thought; thus, respect was the proper attitude.

Why anyone thought he would make a good teacher was quite beyond Harry.

The man was not, of course, respectful, and so Harry fended him off with vague answers and half-truths. Eventually, he reached the limit of his short attention span and looked elsewhere for conversation, asking questions between long draughts from a glass that smelt strongly of spirits.

Harry noted that for future reference.

It was obvious that everyone there had been invited because they were connected to somebody well-known or influential. The pale Slytherin, for instance, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been involved with very rich wizards at least five times, each of her lovers dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold).

Neville had been invited because of his wealthy grandmother and great-uncle, with whom he lived. When Lockhart inquired as to the health of his family, Neville stuttered a response. His parents, well-known Aurors, as it turned out, had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of Death Eater cronies. They now occupied a ward in St. Mungo's.

Harry's heart absolutely _bled_ for him, the poor dear.

Harry reclined in his seat and closed his eyes. It was a far more interesting pastime than listening to Lockhart drone on about his exploits.

* * *

Once he had evaded the clutches of the bumbling Lockhart, Harry returned to his minions. He even, in his generosity, deigned to bring Neville back with him.

He opened the door to the compartment and stepped through, moving quickly to beat Neville inside.

In his absence, another red-headed child appeared to have taken up residence in the compartment, her face hidden behind her long hair and a shabby black book she was pretending to be engrossed in.

Weasleys. He was surrounded by Weasleys.

"Is that your sister, Ron?"

"Yes," Ron answered, breaking off a conversation with Hermione to turn towards his sister. "Ginny, this is Harry. Harry Potter – you know, the one that you are always talking about."

The poor little thing let out an embarrassed squeak, and Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Pitching his voice to sound as kindly as possible (this was Ron's sister, after all, and he wished to be the best of friends with Ron) he bent down to introduce himself properly to Ginny.

"How do you do, Ginny? I'm Harry."

The girl flushed and muttered something vaguely resembling a response.

"What are you reading, Ginny?" Hermione asked in an attempt to make the poor girl feel less awkward. "Have you already gotten started on the First Year texts? If you have, you're probably going to be a lot better company than Ron and Harry."

"Hey!"

But Ginny was shaking her head.

"J-just an old diary of mine," she managed.

"Oh. Still, better that than nothing!"

* * *

In the Great Hall, innumerable candles were hovering in midair over four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched ceiling, which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with stars.

It was a sight that would bring wonder to the heart of any Muggle.

Harry Potter was not filled with wonder. Instead, he was hungry, and displeased that he needed to wait for others before being able to sate that hunger.

 _Learning restraint and patience are good for you_.

 _Probably,_ Harry admitted to his mentor, _but that doesn't mean I have to like it._

A flash of movement caught his eye, and through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, Harry saw a long line of scared-looking first years filing into the Hall. At least one looked to be a Weasley, easily visible because of her vivid Weasley hair. Harry tried to remember if Ron had a sister, but honestly could not recall.

Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall, wearing her hair in its customary tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers.

Hopefully, the enchanted object would Sort them very quickly.

A very small, mousy-haired boy was the first to be called forward to place the hat on his head. Harry's eyes wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several seats along, Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in robes of aquamarine. Somehow, he had managed to change clothes after leaving the train, but before the feast.

Harry frowned when he saw who was at the end. Hagrid, huge and hairy, occupied the seat formerly belonging to Kettleburn, Professor for Care of Magical Creatures. As Harry watched, Hagrid drank deeply from his goblet and then belched.

Odd choice for a new Professor. Harry had little against Hagrid (though he preferred it when the enormous man wasn't around), but he didn't seem particularly qualified for the post.

It wasn't as if he were going to take Care of Magical Creatures anyway, so Harry dismissed the matter.

Soon enough, the Sorting and announcements were over, and the students began to feast. Blatantly disregarding protocol, Hagrid wandered down from the teacher's table to sit with Ron, Harry, and Hermione.

"Congratulations, Hagrid!" Hermione offered from where she sat in her chair at the end of the table.

"All down ter you three," said Hagrid, wiping his shining face on a napkin as he sat down with them. "Can' believe it. . . great man, Dumbledore. . . came straight down to me hut after Professor Kettleburn said he'd had enough. . . It's what I always wanted, though I'm not sure I'm cut out fer teachin the best. So very kind."

Hagrid produced a great handkerchief from his voluminous coat and blew his nose. For a second, Harry thought he was being assaulted by a charging bull elephant.

"What do you think of Professor Lockhart, Hagrid?" Harry asked once Hagrid was quiet once more. The man, being a Professor, would hopefully know more about him than the other students.

"I'm not one ter talk, Harry," rumbled Hagrid. "Like I said, I don' think I'm the best choice ter teach all of yeh about Magical Creatures. Mostly 'cause I wasn't a good student meself. But I've spent a whole lotta time working with 'em as Hogswarts Groundskeeper. Nearly forty years, all told. I know just abou' everythin' there's ter know about 'em."

Hagrid frowned, the unusual expression crinkling up his big face.

"Still, I know wha' I'm doin'. I met Lockhart when Professor Dumbledore brought him in fer an interview, and I can't say I like him. Don't seem to me like he knows what he's doing, or how ter teach yeh proper. If one word of what he says in those books 'o his is true, I'll eat my kettle."

It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts' teacher, and Harry looked at him in surprise.

"Really?" Harry asked. "Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job -"

"He was the on' man for the job," said Hagrid, taking a bite out of a cake (which left very little cake left), "An' I mean the on' one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see. They're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now. I can't blame 'em, seeing how Professor Quirrel ended up."

The other talked with Hagrid for a while longer after that, but Harry lost interest and concentrated upon the good food set before him.

* * *

"No," said Harry. "Absolutely not. Leave me be."

"But it's so I can prove I've met you," said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead" (his eyes raked Harry's hairline) "and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures will move."

Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and continued, "It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him."

"Great," Harry said, feeling rather cross. Creevey had cornered him on the first day of classes, without so much as a proper introduction or a how-do-you-do, and started badgering him for a picture. "Fantastic. Take more pictures, but do so away from me."

"Pleeeeasse?" Colin whined. "Please, Harry? I really want a photo and - "

"Signed photos?" came the distinctive sneer of Draco Malfoy. "You're giving out signed photos, Potter? For _free_? Really, you ought to charge for it – it would keep out the riffraff like this one, anyway," he finished, indicating Colin, who was taking advantage of the distraction to try and snap a quick picture.

 _My patience_ , Harry decided, setting his jaw, _is at an end_.

" _Hexus_ ," he hissed, holding up his hand and then closing it smartly. He put a disproportionate amount of power into the spell in order to make sure it overcame whatever protections enabled it to function at Hogwarts. Poor Creevey's camera was no match, and it spat sparks before emitting a faint plume of smoke.

"Oh, I know it, Draco," Harry replied, acting as though nothing had happened. No-one would be able to prove he had done anything. "How much do you suppose I could make?"

"You had me frightened there for a moment, Harry. I thought you might have turned into a miniature of that arrogant popinjay who -"

"What's all this, what's all this?" Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. "Who's giving out signed photos?"

Harry started to speak but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and thundered jovially, "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Harry!"

Pinned to Lockhart's side and burning with a quiet rage, Harry saw Malfoy make an about face in head the other direction. Apparently, he too had problems with Lockhart.

"Come on then, Mr. Creevey," said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. "A double portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll both sign it for you."

"No," said Harry, allowing a whisper of Hellfire to enter his voice, making it harsh and raw.

"No?" asked Lockhart, frowning.

"No," Harry said in a sickly-sweet voice. The change in tone appeared to have confuse Lockhart.

The bell ringing saved Lockhart from the indignity of a verbal thrashing, but the simpering fool was not to be deterred.

"Off you go then, move along there," Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harry, who was now honestly debating whether to murder him, still clasped to his side.

"A word to the wise, Harry," said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. "I covered up for you back there with young Creevey - if he had photographed me, too, your schoolmates wouldn't think you're setting yourself up so much . . ."

"I didn't even want one," Harry argued, trying to pull away. He did not like being touched. It was easy, so easy, to snip a lock of hair while embracing another, and that was dangerous.

Oblivious to Harry's response, Lockhart swept him down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase. "Let me just say that playing hard to get at this stage of your career isn't sensible - looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you can use it to drive up prices, but " - he gave a little chortle - " I don't think you're quite there yet."

They had reached Lockhart's classroom and he let Harry go at last. Harry yanked his robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where he busied himself slamming all seven of Lockhart's books onto the desk front of him, so that he could avoid strangling the real thing.

Class was not interesting, and Harry spent most of it devising ways to kill the teacher.

Then Lockhart bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

"Now - be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better look at the cage. Lockhart placed a hand on the cover.

"I must ask you not to scream," said Lockhart in a low voice. "It might provoke them."

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.

"Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies. "

Seamus Finnigan couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.

"Yes?" He smiled at Seamus.

"Well, they're not - they're not very - dangerous, are they?" Seamus choked.

"Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!"

Harry did not share in the amusement of the others. No, he was rather concerned.

From what he had read, pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing.

The moment the cover was removed, it was quite evident to him that these were _not_ pixies. They wore their black hair was in long braids, pulled back from their enormous, pitch-black eyes. Deep purple tattoos shifted over paper-white skin, fading and reappearing seemingly at random.

They also had armor. Of course, they _had_ to have armor. It looked to be made of something almost like ice, with lots of little spikes on it.

 _Oh, dear,_ said Namshiel. The Fallen had apparently become bored of whatever he was doing, and decided to watch the class.

 _What is it?_

 _Those aren't Cornish pixies, my dear boy. Those are lesser Fae – Wee Folk, aligned with Winter. Lockhart has bungled horribly._

"Right, then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of them!" And he opened the cage.

 _Oh_ , thought Harry, _bloody hell._

A flurry of dark wings and darker armor exploded from the cage, before splitting up into dozens of tiny individuals.

One went straight for Lockhart, who gave a startled yelp and dived under his desk – but not before the fairy caught him just below his eye with a tiny sword it appeared to have conjured from ice.

The rest bombarded the terrified, screaming students – really, it wasn't as if anything bad had happened. Lockhart had only just come within centimeters of losing an eye.

Harry had just finished sneering at his fellow students when a particularly vicious and energetic one managed to skewer him in the hand with a miniature dagger. Harry let out an undignified yelp, much to his mortification, and also ducked beneath his table. It followed, only to be forced to break off its attack to dodge a kick.

Ron, as it turned out, was his savior. The redheaded boy let out a wild yell and swung at the Fae, which only laughed and made a rude gesture at him.

"Just like the gnomes at home," he huffed to Harry, swiping at the faerie again, "'cept for they've got knives!"

Ron caught it on his follow-up swing, though, and he knocked the faerie to the floor, where it lay keening in pain. Ron shut it up by stomping on it.

Thirty-six tiny eyes turned towards Harry and his friend, and Harry knew things were about to become much, much worse.

But over the sounds of battle and panic, Harry Potter heard music. It was eerie, spine-tingling, unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry's scalp and made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. It spoke of fire, of flame, of warmth, and choking heat, so much that Harry couldn't breathe; a heat that pressed into him and set him aflame. There was a terrible, smoldering anger to it that spoke of an ancient, deep-seated grudge.

The music crescendoed in a high-pitched scream of rage, and the center of the room suddenly erupted in a pillar of wild green and golden flame so vibrant and bright that Harry couldn't look directly at it.

A crimson bird the size of a swan had seated itself on the corner of Lockhart's charred desk. It had a glittering golden tail as long as a peacock's and gleaming golden talons, and regarded the room sourly through golden irises.

Of the Wee Folk, nothing could be seen, save a hardy visible cloud of very, very fine black powder, and some faint scorch marks on the wall.

The Phoenix surveyed the cowering students with a critical eye, and it managed to convey the impression of a disappointed frown, even with its beak.

It locked eyes with Harry for a long, uncomfortable moment. He bowed his head in response, curious as to what such a creature was doing at Hogwarts.

Then the bird flapped its wings once, sang another burst of song, and disappeared in a flash of flame.

The children all looked at one another, and Lockhart finally dared to peep out from beneath his desk. He had almost recovered his nerve, or so Harry judged from his vacuous boasting about vanquishing the Fae, when the door to the classroom was thrown open with an almighty crash.

Albus Dumbledore stood there, and the look upon his face as he stared down at the cowering Lockhart was more terrible than Harry could have ever imagined. There was no benign smile on Dumbledore's face, no twinkle in the eyes behind the spectacles. There was cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of power radiated from Dumbledore as though he were giving off burning heat.

Rather like the phoenix, come to think of it.

"Come with me, Gilderoy Lockhart," Dumbledore said, his voice deadly calm. "Students, you are dismissed to your dormitories. Your Defense Against the Dark Arts classes are cancelled until further notice."

"Good riddance," Ron said after the door closed. Harry and Hermione agreed, but Harry wasn't prepared to let things go so easily.

* * *

Lockhart was quite intolerable. Frankly, Harry thought, as he pried off the top of the terrarium, given how much the teachers disliked him and how incompetent he was, it was unlikely anyone would look too closely into matters if he passed away from heart failure. It was always a risk, what with the heavy drinking and all.

More than that, _he had endangered Harry_. Though Harry had little doubt the man had already been stripped of his post (Dumbledore would suffer fools, it seemed, but not actively dangerous ones), such gross incompetence called for a greater punishment. Harry was not appreciative of attempts on his life, accidental or otherwise.

After all, if that phoenix hadn't incinerated the lot of them, they might have reported back to their mistress. And that would have had lasting consequences, assuming they knew Harry for what he was.

Also, public embarrassment. Enough said.

Harry frowned down at the interior of the terrarium. The occupant appeared to have effected an escape whilst Harry was in class. He couldn't have gotten very far, but Harry needed to find him before any of the other Gryffindors did. If they picked the golden amphibian up, that would be bad.

"Beelzebub," Harry called, grabbing the metal tongs strapped to the terrarium, "where have you gotten off to? I need you to do something for me in exchange for all those special bugs I've been feeding you."

* * *

When the students filed into the Great Hall for supper two days later, Professor Lockhart was not there. Tonight, there were black drapes on the wall behind the teachers' table. Harry knew instantly why they were there. Beelzebub was an efficient little frog, he was, especially when he was guided and controlled by magic.

Dumbledore stood up just as the desserts appeared on the table, his face very solemn. The Great Hall, which in any case had been less noisy than it usually was, became very quiet.

"Your attention, please, children."

All eyes went to the elderly Headmaster.

"It is my sad duty to inform you" said Dumbledore, looking around at them all, "that Gilderoy Lockhart, formerly Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, appears to have taken his own life."

A horrified whisper swept the Great Hall. People were staring at Dumbledore in disbelief. He looked perfectly calm as he watched them mutter themselves into silence.

"Some would say," Dumbledore continued, "that it is not my place to tell you this, and that you should have learned the tidied-up version from his obituary in _The Daily Prophet_. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Professor Lockhart either retired to a different country, died as the result of an accident, or some sort of heroic action, is quite untenable."

"The truth is that – based both upon a preliminary autopsy by Auror specialists and a search of his personal quarters – that Professor Lockhart had struggled for some time with an addiction to alcoholic beverages."

 _Oh, yes, this will certainly start the Hogwarts rumor mill running_ , Harry thought _. No doubt many insinuations and accusations of drunken orgies will ensue, though I doubt such things ever took place._

Really, Harry could have giggled. He felt positively giddy about doing away with Lockhart. There was a terrible joy in sitting there, amongst those who had not killed and could not conceive of doing so. He was thrilled by the risk he had taken, by the prospect of discovery. He had committed an act of terrible sin, profaned the halls of Hogwarts, and yet here he sat, no-one the wiser for it.

What would the other students do, if they knew the Professor's killer sat among them? Would they flee, trampling each other in their panic? Would any of them seek retribution?

"Professor Lockhart took up the position as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at my request this year. He was one of two people I asked; the other was, unfortunately, unavailable."

At this point Dumbledore paused and looked gravely at them over the tops of his half-moon spectacles.

"Magic is very, very dangerous; let us make no pretense about it. As such, we at Hogwarts attempt to teach it to you in a relatively controlled environment, where we can shield you from the deadliest consequences of it. All professors are to do their best to keep you safe."

"Professor Lockhart broke that rule."

There was a long period of absolute silence.

"Two days ago, he let loose amongst the Second Years several highly dangerous magical creatures. They are not commonly found in Britain; indeed, this is the first I had heard of them – a Mr. Croaker from the Ministry of Magic was able to identify them. Had it not been for the intervention of Fawkes, the Hogwarts' resident phoenix, it is entirely possible that several students could have been severely injured, or even slain. She immolated them before they could cause any great harm."

Stunned and frightened, every face in the Hall was turned toward Dumbledore now. Even the Slytherins appeared to be paying close attention.

"As Headmaster, I could not permit Mr. Lockhart to continue teaching after such a disastrous incident and so, with the full support of the School Governors, I dismissed him from his position. He was allowed three days to gather his effects and leave Hogwarts. This morning, however, he was found dead in his quarters. Based on the opinions of the examining Aurors, he quite literally drank himself to death, because he could not face the shame that the papers would bring upon him as soon as they learnt of his dismissal."

"Let this" Dumbledore said softly, "be a lesson to all of us; life is never so bad as to warrant suicide. There is always another option, and to give up on life is not weak, but it is foolish. Nor should we attach so much value to titles and the opinions of others."

The students left quietly after that.

As Harry was leaving, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as an unnatural chill brushed against it.

He whirled, half-expecting to see an Auror behind him with a leveled wand, but he saw nothing.

All but his closest acquaintances – Ron, Hermione, and Percy – had already left. Oh, and Ron's kid sister, who was tagging along behind Percy, her face hidden behind a veil of hair.

He looked around again and still saw nothing, so he left, his friends following behind him.

Late that night, as he settled into his bed, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that invisible eyes still watched him.

* * *

Once again, Harry found that the secret of using wand-magic escaped him. Despite all the additional reading and practice he had done over the summer, it seemed as though he had not improved since last year.

Professor McGonagall's classes, for instance, had always required hard work, but this year was even more difficult for Harry than the last. On the first day of class, she had given them the assignment of turning a beetle into a button, but all Harry managed to do was turn the little insect into a pile of ectoplasm. The ectoplasm had dissolved before he could attempt to reconstitute the beetle, and he had been forced to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn't pleased.

It was a pity that he wasn't gifted at Transfiguration. Though difficult for many wand-wizards, the Arts of Changing were far more difficult for true-wizards. Only the greatest of water-mages were able to achieve feats half as impressive as those of wand-wizards.

Harry guessed – based upon information drawn from Namshiel – that the wand-wizards inherited their proficiency in that area from their Faerie ancestors. The Fae – especially the High Sidhe – were masters of both Seeming and Shaping.

He was somewhat more proficient at Charms, though the more complex ones – especially those involving bewitching inanimate objects – were far beyond him.

Were he honest with himself, he was only a tad more skilled than Neville Longbottom.

After the first week of school, Harry sought out Hermione, and reminded her of the gift she had promised him.

Their tutoring sessions began immediately, in a quiet corner of the Library. Progress was so slow as to be nonexistent. Hermione was a gifted student, but not phenomenally so, and she really wasn't very good at teaching.

She was, however, able to point him towards books, and offer new ideas and perspectives concerning magic. Her tutoring helped him to some extent, but did not propel him to the levels of ability Harry desired.

Eventually, his friend had suggested he approach Professor McGonagall for Remedial Transfiguration.

The Scotswoman had, apparently, been expecting him for some time, or so her quick acquiescence suggested. It was to be expected, Harry supposed. It couldn't have been very often that there was such a sharp divide between a student's knowledge and practical ability.

"But if I'm to teach you, Mr. Potter," McGonagall had begun, glaring at him fiercely, "you'd better put some effort into learning. Understanding the underlying magical theories ought to allow you to cast more advanced spells more easily. So I'm going to give you a list of books from the Library that you ought to read."

Harry readily agreed to that, though he wasn't sure if that would help him. He had read many of the books in the Library already.

But McGonagall had taught children for longer than Harry had been alive, and she was not wrong. Under her tutelage, he learned. Slowly, but surely.

If only he could get that horrid swish-and-flick down.

* * *

"So," Ron said one day as he, Harry, and Hermione were walking (or floating, respectively) to class. "Quidditch tryouts are in three weeks."

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. He knew _exactly_ what Ron wanted. "No, no, no, and no."

"But Harry-," Ron began, but Harry cut him off.

"Ron, I wear glasses. _Glasses_. Even with them on, I can't see distant things with any great detail. When they're off, I'm blind as a bat. And unless I put a Permanent Sticking Charm on them (which would do wonders for my complexion when I tried to take them off), I can almost guarantee that I would lose them while flying. Also, it's stupid."

Ron stared at Harry as though his friend had sprouted a second set of eyes, and then shook his head.

"You're as weird as Ginny," Ron decided. "Always toting her diary around."

"Oi! Just because I don't like Quidditch doesn't mean I'm weird. Anyways, are you trying out?"

Harry thought he felt a faint buzzing beneath his feet, as though he were standing near a railroad track. It was rather curious. Some old magic, perhaps? He didn't ever recall feeling it there before.

"Yeah! Second Years don't normally get in, of course, but sometimes they'll train one for a backup position, just in case someone gets sick. Gryffindor doesn't have any openings right now, either. We've Angelina, Alicia, and Katie as Seekers, Wood as Keeper, and the twins as Beaters. Tryouts this year are just to scout out new talent."

"Who's the seeker, Ron?" Hermione asked as they neared Snape's class.

"Some Seventh Year," Ron said. He elaborated, but Harry didn't catch the rest of his reply. The faint buzzing had grown into a vibration which slowed as it approached Harry.

Harry tensed. There was something amiss here, but he didn't know what it was. Namshiel was stirring too, roused by Harry's unease.

But the vibration soon faded into the distance. Harry looked over at Ron and Hermione, but they didn't appear to have noticed anything.

Odd. Doubtless, one of the many benefits of living in a centuries-old enchanted castle that also served as a school for volatile young wizards and a home to countless powerful spirits.

* * *

A fortnight later, when Harry went down to breakfast, a stranger was sitting in Lockhart's former seat. He stuck out like a sore thumb; he was very young, for one, with a mane of light brown hair. The stranger was also wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard's robes that had been darned in several places, which looked particularly tatty next to all the other teachers in their best robes.

"This," the Headmaster said, "is Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic applause. Harry did not bother; his doing so would make no difference.

The man stood up as the students applauded, and Harry got a better look at him.

His first impression was that Professor Lupin was physically imposing; even under his loose-fitting robes his muscles were obvious. His shoulders were broad, and Harry guessed him to be well over six feet in height.

Yet for all that, he didn't carry himself like a man who was strong or powerful. He walked stooped over, his great shoulders hunched as though he bore some unimaginably heavy burden.

"I thank you," he said, his voice a baritone growl, "for inviting me to teach here, Headmaster Dumbledore, and I am sorry that I was not able to take up the post at the beginning of the year. Students, I hope to mend whatever harm my predecessor has done, and that you find my teaching acceptable. That is all."

Oh, a gloomy teacher like that ought to do _wonders_ for morale, though Harry could live with that so long as the man was _competent_.

The odd cold crept down his neck again, and he looked around for a likely culprit. No-one was even looking at him, though, and he frowned.

Odd. Very odd.


	15. Chapter 14: Pride Goethe

Chapter XIV: Pride Goethe

"I don't know why I let you talk me into this," Harry grumbled at his friend as he rubbed the crusty sleep from his eyes. "I don't even like Quidditch, Ron. You know that, and I know you know that."

He cast a bleary eye over the castle grounds. It was a beautiful morning; there was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold sky, and the hundreds of birds that nested in Hogwarts were bothering him with their cheerful calls.

That made him grumpy. What right did the morning have to be beautiful when he was grumpy?

"But it'll be fun, Harry!" Ron protested. "I know you don't like to play, but you seemed pretty happy after the last game you went to."

"That was only because that rogue Bludger nearly decapitated Snape. Remind me again why I agreed to come."

"Because," Hermione huffed at him from her floating chair, "Ron is your friend, Harry. This is the sort of thing that you do for friends. And also he begged and begged and begged and begged."

"And I am grateful you're coming, mate. Means a lot to me, it does."

There was an earnest tone to Ron's voice, and it made Harry deeply uncomfortable. He was nurturing their friendship for one purpose and one purpose only. Oh, doubtlessly he would have befriended Ron regardless – the boy was hound-dog loyal. Namshiel's instructions merely hastened it along.

"Pish and tosh," Harry grumped, scuffing at the ground with a shoe. "Where's your broom, Ron? I was under the impression brooms were a rather instrumental part of Quidditch."

Ron turned an interesting custardy colour and set off at a dead sprint back towards the castle proper.

Harry shook his head after his friend. Really, such carelessness was a habit Ron needed to break – particularly if he wanted to do well in Quidditch. From what Harry had gathered from listening in to the conversations of other, older students, Quidditch talent ran in the Weasley family. As such, Ron certainly had the talent – but he needed to devote extra effort to cultivating it if he wanted to be recognized for it.

"Shall we," he said, gathering his thoughts and offering Hermione his arm, "proceed to the field where our knight shall be jousting, Ms. Granger?"

"I think we shall," Hermione decided as she took the proffered arm.

Harry escorted his floating friend to the Quidditch field, where a small crowd appeared to have gathered. It was larger than Harry had expected – perhaps tryouts were more significant than he realized.

As they drew closer, raised voices made it clear that there was some sort of altercation under way.

"We're holding tryouts!" The Gryffindor Captain, Oliver Woods, was screaming at the Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint. "We got up 'specially! You can clear off now!"

The teams had drawn up behind their respective captains and were shooting one another dark looks. The Weasley twins were weighing their Beater's bats, as though seriously considering cracking a Slytherin skull or two.

Flint had a look of immense stupidity on his face as he replied, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."

"But I booked the field!" said Wood, positively spitting with rage. "I booked it!"

"Ah," said Flint. "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. 'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.'"

"You've got a new Seeker?" said Wood, distracted. "Where?"

And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.

Harry hadn't even known Draco liked Quidditch. Good for him for making the team, though.

"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" said Fred, looking at Malfoy with dislike. The Weasleys appeared to have some sort of intergenerational feud going on with the Malfoys; Ron had told Harry that after Harry left Diagon Alley, Mr. Weasley had nearly come to blows with Mr. Malfoy in the bookstore.

"Funny you should mention Draco's father," said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. "Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team."

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors' noses in the early morning sun.

Oh. Draco hadn't made the team, then; he had purchased it. Harry supposed that was an equally valid method of making the team. He wondered if the Slytherins had made a good decision there; from what he had seen of Quidditch, the differences in brooms were minimal, and players were what made the greatest difference. If Draco was passably good, it was probably a net gain,

"Very latest model. Only came out last month," said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps" - he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives – "sweeps the board with them."

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Draco was smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced to slits.

Ron came up from behind Harry, breathing heavily from his record sprint back to the Gryffindor dormitories. He had not come back empty-handed, either; in one hand, he clutched a battered old broomstick.

"What's happening?" Ron asked Wood. "Why aren't the tryouts starting? And what's he doing here?"

He was looking at Draco, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes.

"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," said Malfoy, smugly. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father' s bought our team."

Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.

"Good, aren't they?" said Malfoy smoothly. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them."

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," said Hermione sharply from where she floated next to Harry. "They got in on pure talent."

Harry slapped a hand over his face. This was not going to end well.

The smug look on Malfoy's face flickered.

"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.

Admittedly, that was a worse response than Harry had predicted. Namshiel may have left Harry's education in wand-magic to others, but he had been more or less thorough in teaching Harry about the culture and politics of Wizarding England. So, Harry was very aware of the implications and great insult of calling Hermione a Mudblood. The implications of the word were not dissimilar to certain racial slurs used in the American South. To call someone a Mudblood was not only an insult, but a complete dismissal of their existence as a person, and - in this case – a challenge.

He didn't leap at the blonde boy like Weasley twins did, though, nor attempt to hex him like Ron. It was one thing for them to do so – they had, for all intents and purposes, long since declared themselves enemies of Draco Malfoy.

Harry had not.

Malfoy was not his friend, but he was the scion of a very powerful man, and a member of a family that Namshiel had historically allied himself with. Malfoy the Younger had already made overtures towards Harry. To challenge him over this would put him at odds with the boy, his father, and a great many of their traditional allies.

But Hermione was his friend, and that altered things.

Harry fingered his wand uncertainly. This was exactly what he had been avoiding – a confrontation between himself and the children of the Dark Lord's staunchest supporters. By neither supporting nor offending them, he had become something of a nonentity at Hogwarts (socially speaking). He maintained his friendship with Ron and Hermione, and was gracious (albeit somewhat remote) with Malfoy.

 _I did ally myself with the Malfoys,_ Namshiel offered, _but Abraxas was a very different sort of man than this puling brat. He was stern, cruel, and above all, pragmatic. You needed to choose a side between these silly children sooner or later. I am of the opinion that Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley are of far greater value, but the final choice is up to you._

Harry sighed and reached his thoughts down into the smoldering Hellfire burning deep within his soul, a power that had dwelt there since Namshiel bonded to him. With a flick of his thoughts, he sent it flooding into his magic.

A clear message needed to be sent, then, to those whom he intended to set himself against.

A series of images and sounds exploded in his mind, and he frowned. What Namshiel suggested was both extraordinarily taxing and extremely imprecise. He hadn't ever done anything like it before.

 _You know the Name. It shall work, dear host_ , _so long as you don't try to do anything spectacular. My power is yours._

And indeed he did. Full names were used freely amongst wand-wizards; he'd heard Draco's at least a half dozen times (and from his own lips, no less). Had he not been aware of it, he would never have dared attempt this.

Namshiel's will and power bolstering his own, Harry pursed his lips and said, thoughtfully and precisely, "Draco. Lucius. Malfoy."

His words throbbed with power and he knew in that instant that it had worked.

Draco staggered, and Marcus Flint caught his shoulder, keeping him upright. Harry had just used Draco's full name, his true Name, to reach out to him and casually backhand him off his feet.

"That," Harry continued, carefully directing his eyes away from Malfoy, whose pale eyes were still watering with pain and humiliation (this was hardly the time for a soulgaze), "was quite uncalled for. Language, sah! I think you owe Hermione an apology."

Malfoy went for his wand, but Hermione pulled out hers first. Malfoy stepped backward. Crabbe and Goyle looked at him for instructions, thoroughly bewildered.

Marcus Flint stepped in front of them, hulking menacingly over Harry.

"You hexed one of my teammates," Flint grunted, cracking his knuckles and glaring at Harry. "Professor Snape will see you expelled for this, Potter – and that's if we don't get to you first."

Harry allowed himself a thin smile. It said a lot, that smile. Mild scorn, mild disgust, the very slightest touch of menace. Anything but friendliness.

He knew this because Namshiel made him practice it in the looking-glass every day.

"No, he shan't. Mr. Malfoy merely stumbled; I neither drew my wand nor uttered an incantation. And you," Harry said, indicating the angry Slytherins with a sweep of his hand, " will do nothing because you can do nothing. If you touch me, _you_ will be expelled. Good day to you."

Harry turned and swept away from the fracas, Hermione following. Ron looked askance at Wood, who shook his head.

"Go on. We'll have tryouts another day; they aren't worth the effort."

"I won't forget this, Potter!" Malfoy shrilled behind Harry. "You'll regret this!"

"Doubt it," Harry muttered. If Malfoy could harm him, then he deserved whatever he got.

Harry slowed down once he reached the steps, allowing Ron and Hermione to catch up. Hermione floated up gently while Ron ran up, huffing and puffing.

"Harry!" Ron gasped, sounding both stunned and impressed. "That – that was absolutely _wicked_."

"It was," Hermione seconded, eyes shining. "Thanks for standing up for me, Harry."

"I don't know what you are implying, Ron. _I_ didn't do anything. Like I told Flint, Malfoy merely stumbled. I'm told it's a real problem to keep your balance once your head reaches such enormous proportions."

He spoke in a serious tone, but Harry couldn't quite keep a thin smile from playing about his lips. He felt rather pleased with himself for finally bringing Malfoy low.

Ron noticed and shook his head.

"You're a little scary sometimes, you know that? Wicked, but scary."

"I am not a little scary, Ron," Harry sniffed. "I am a lot scary. But it isn't me you should be worried about; you're my mates, and Malfoy knows that. He's too frightened to confront me directly, but you are fair game. I'd watch my back, were I you."

* * *

Ron, being Ron, didn't listen all that closely to Harry's warning. Harry supposed that Ron thought Malfoy wouldn't follow through on his threats.

He had a point. Malfoy was something of a spineless worm, and he'd never made good on any threats towards Ron before.

Apparently, though, Malfoy didn't have problems with following through on his threats so long as he didn't have to do it face-to-face. It also seemed that Malfoy had never been angry enough to seriously attack someone before.

Harry had made him very, very angry.

All that he had been told by Professor McGonagall at the end of Transfiguration was that Ron had taken a bad fall, and would be spending a day or two under Madam Pomfrey's tender care. For observational purposes, of course. Not because McGonagall was worried a weak Ron would be an easy target.

Harry Potter flung the door to the Hogwarts Infirmary wide open, allowing it to bang against the wall, and stalked through. He was far too incensed to listen to the twittering of Madam Pomfrey.

Only one of the clean, white hospital beds was occupied. The curtains were drawn back, and even from the entrance, Harry could see Ron's flaming hair, a striking contrast to the sheets.

Ron didn't seem to be feeling too badly, as he raised one arm and waved Harry over.

"Harry," he managed once Harry reached his bedside.

"You look terrible, Ron. What happened?"

"I tripped down the stairs," Ron declared loudly. "Tricky things, those stairs."

Harry raised an eyebrow as he looked his friend over.

Madam Pomfrey had cleaned him up, and probably healed the worst of the injuries. Even so, Ron looked absolutely awful. He had a fat lip, and his right eye was blackened and nearly swollen shut. His cheek was all bruises, and there was another large bruise on the very top of his forehead.

"Alright," Rod admitted, wilting under Harry's gaze and licking his lips. "It may have been Malfoy. I couldn't really tell. Slimy git hit me with a Tripping Jinx when I was at the top of the stair. Probably laughed his fat head off."

"I _told_ you that he'd try something like this, Ron. Did you listen?"

"What do you want to hear? That I didn't? Well, I didn't, and I've got the broken collarbone to prove it,"

Harry passed a hand over his face.

"Look, Ron, I'm not really blaming you. I don't think either of us thought Malfoy would try something like this. This is serious; he could be expelled for it."

"Yeah, 'cept he's a dirty coward and made sure I never saw him," Ron frowned as he settled back into his pillows. "McGonagall can't do anything about it, especially with Snape being the way he is."

 _Irrelevant_ , hissed Namshiel, his voice soft and sibilant. _Kill the Malfoy brat. No-one will know it was you. There are rituals I can show you that will rip his still-beating heart from his chest._

 _Not yet, Namshiel. I think we ought to wait a little longer. No, to retaliate, I think I'll buy Ron a gift._

Namsiel was silent for a long moment as he dug into Harry's thoughts.

 _Jeeves ought to be able to get one here by tomorrow night, dear host._

* * *

Jeeves outdid himself, and the package actually arrived late that night. Harry was forced to go up to the Owlrey to get it. It was long past curfew, so he wore his invisibility cloak.

Harry tucked the long, thin package under his cloak and began making his way through the darkened corridors towards the Infirmary.

About halfway there, Harry's eye was caught by something shining on the wall ahead. He approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

Harry's lips moved as he read them out loud to himself.

 _The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware. He is only the Beginning!_

As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped - there was a large puddle of water on the floor – but he recovered quickly, and moved closer to the letters.

The air near the letters felt cold. An energy Harry had never sensed before hung in the air like cloying, oily perfume, and as he drew closer to the letters, he found himself tensing up. There was nauseating, greasy, and almost empty feel to it – not entirely dissimilar from his own, but unmistakably _hostile_ , and without the familiar stench of brimstone.

Harry reached out a cautious finger and prodded a letter. A panicky little thrill raced through his gut, turning his legs watery and uncertain. His hand started to shake, and he jerked it away from the wall.

The feelings of terror ceased.

When he touched it again, the sensation redoubled, mindless and sudden fear, so that he had to fight to keep from bolting down the corridor, screaming like a madman.

 _It is black magic,_ Namshiel whispered, _the power of Creation itself applied to maim and destroy everything it touches. It is startlingly powerful, and rather good work - intended to create fear. Chaos. Helplessness. But it is not yet active, for a reagent seems to be missing._

The letters appeared to have been painted with some sort of viscous red substance that looked all too familiar.

 _Taste of the blood_ , Namshiel commanded. _This will allow me to identify the base composition of the spell and guess missing reagent._

 _Eucch!_ Harry thought, pulling a face. _No! What if I contract AIDS or another horrible disease? And if merely touching it causes such terror, what will ingesting it do?_

 _You are beyond the mortal coil now, my host. Such things would not affect you as they would a human. And the magic is not yet active; I can dispel any unwanted effects of digesting the energy infused in the blood._

His voice brooked no argument. It never did.

So it was that Harry Potter, most reluctantly, quickly ran a hand along the letters and brought it to his lips, dripping with fresh blood.

It tasted nasty, and Harry shuddered. It was horrible and metallic and just-no-thank-you. But if the taste was bad, the magic was worse. He felt a sharp spike of panic that grew and grew. Instead of coming in a jolt and quickly subsiding into rational relief, the feeling not only lingered but intensified.

Then it suddenly ceased, as if someone had flipped a switch inside him.

Namshiel, on the other hand, sucked in a breath and seemed to savor the information he was gleaning from Harry's senses.

 _Poultry_ , he finally pronounced, just as a connoisseur might label an unknown wine. _Perhaps a hint of bovine._

 _I don't know how you know that, and I don't wish to know._

Namshiel merely sneered and directed Harry's attention back to the lettering.

 _It is dangerous. It would be best to dispel the energy before it can be set in motion. A drop of human blood will activate the spell; a gobbet of bile will destroy it. Such are its humors._

"Human blood?" asked Harry, a sinking feeling in his gut. That sounded ominous.

No-one was around, he realized, and that in and of itself was suspicious. What were the odds that he should find it before anyone else?

Harry turned, fearing that he had missed some far more dangerous threat that had been lurking just behind him, in the shadows.

He was right to be afraid.

The first strike missed Harry by mere inches, instead taking a great chunk of masonry out of the wall. A great plume of crushed rock and mortar obscured Harry's vision entirely. He had a vague sense of something truly enormous and horribly powerful drawing back from the decimated wall, preparing to strike once more.

There was a loud, explosive hissing sound right above him, and then something heavy hit Harry so hard that he was thrown into the wall. A tiny supernova of pain blossomed into existence on his right arm, and he rolled away from the wall, and out of the obscuring dust.

Bright, poisonous green scales greeted his crazed gaze. They covered a body thick as an oak trunk, and looked as sharp as razors. Harry's eyes followed that body upwards, past the S-bend that formed where it heaved itself off the floor. He caught the briefest glimpse of a forked tongue as thick as his arm flickering wildly amidst fangs as long and thin as sabers –

Then Namshiel wrenched his head around so hard that his neck let out a cracking sound.

 _The eyes! Don't look into the eyes! This is a basilisk – I can tell from the venom. Their gaze is lethal; the venom I can slow for now._

The basilisk was moving towards Harry; he could hear its heavy body slithering heavily across the dusty floor. Eyes on the ground, Harry began to scramble madly sideways, his hands outstretched, doing his best to feel his way along.

Harry tripped, and he fancied that he heard mocking, feminine laughter. He fell hard onto the stone and tasted blood – the serpent was closing in on him, he could feel it coming. It had need a moment to turn in the tight confines of the hall, but now it was free -

A shadow fell over him, and Harry raised his good arm in a vain attempt to shield himself.

 _I will not permit this_ , boomed Namshiel's voice, so loud in his head that the scene swam before his eyes. Or maybe that was the snakebite. _I have not gone through the trial and effort of finding you and training you up into an almost acceptable host all for naught!_

Harry felt his arm, the one containing Namshiel's Coin, move. It was surrounded by a nimbus of dark fire, and energies crackled from his pores. The arm was flung out with excessive force, the hand outstretched until Harry fancied he could feel his tendons straining under the force. Darkness suddenly gathered around the fingers of his hand.

Shafts of dark lightning leapt from it towards the serpent, arcing out in a looping bolt from every finger. But the arcane blasts were almost randomly directed, as though whatever possessed his arm was not accustomed to a physical body (or was, at the very least, out of practice). Three of them plunged harmlessly into the floor and walls without a sound. There was no explosion, no noise, no flash of light. Nothing.

The other two, though, followed the general path of the extended arm, and found the thick, scaly hide of the serpent.

The great beast keened in pain as it finished turning towards him. Harry could see great holes had been cut clean through its entire body, the skin, hide, muscle, and bone simply _missing_ , having been instantly dissolved where Namshiel's magic had struck.

Harry carefully averted his eyes from the head of the serpent, but there was a stretching sensation on his forehead, and another volley of bolts flew towards the basilisk. None of these missed.

Harry's fingers wove themselves into strange, disturbing patterns as words he did not understand poured from his lips. He could make out only the faintest intentions behind the words from Namshiel – they were words of summoning and binding, of control and slavery.

He heard himself scream out another repetition of the chant, no longer in control of his body. His right arm jerked and twisted, and then he felt his wand slide from his pocket. He traced it through the air, a sullen, fiery line following its path.

A pentacle gradually began to form, but it was not of the design Harry was familiar with - the points of the star fell far outside the ring. As it neared completion, Harry felt the air begin to crackle with fell energies.

"Iä! Iä! Brathgn bel -"

White-hot pain lanced from the arm supporting him, more than even Namshiel could suppress, and Harry was reminded that he had not escaped the second charge of the basilisk unharmed.

His hand twitched spastically, his wand wavered . . . and the next line did not properly connect with the rest of the pentacle.

There was a sound like shattering glass, and the world exploded in light and Hellfire. Heat, light, and sheer, intangible power slammed against Harry's senses and threw him from his feet. Bits of molten rock hissed through the air, deadlier than any bullet. Chunks of masonry were blasted from the wall and ceiling, forming a flimsy barrier between Harry and the basilisk.

He crumpled to the floor, and Namshiel screamed in frustration.

 _Curses upon that thrice-damned spawn of Saluriel! Curse this feeble body! The poison has already taken hold and in this form, I cannot force your organs to process it, cannot alter its structure!_

Harry looked down at his arm. A long, thin scratch ran its entire length. The edges of it were bubbling like boiling water. His vision was going foggy, and his arm blurred in and out of existence. Something warm was running from the corners of his eyes and mouth, and he blearily realized it was blood.

Harry felt his other arm jerk again, and the basilisk screamed once more.

 _I will not be defeated so easily!_ came that booming voice. _Not I!_

He numbly felt himself take his glasses from his face, and then impulses that were not his own forced him to do exactly what Namshiel had ordered him not to.

He looked the basilisk in the eyes.

Or rather, he looked into the reflection of the basilisk that his angled glasses cast. It appeared to be retreating as fast as it possibly could, slithering backwards through the wall of rubble. Enormous holes had blasted through it, and it was missing its lower jaw, but there was no blood.

Then he met the reflection's bulbous yellow eyes, and all became dark.

* * *

Ron was awakened by the scuffing of shoes on stone and the creak of rusty hinges. The door to the Infirmary eased open, allowing a single beam of golden torchlight to fall inside.

Dumbledore was backing in, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed.

"Get Madam Pomfrey," whispered Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Ron's bed, out of sight. He lay quite still, pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress. He heard a sharp intake of breath.

"What happened?" Madam Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the bed.

"An attack on a student," said Dumbledore. "Minerva found him in a corridor."

"There was a present lying next to him," said Professor McGonagall. "We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit you."

Ron's stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and carefully, he raised himself a few inches so he could look at the statue on the bed. A ray of moonlight lay across its staring face.

It was Harry. His eyes were wide and his left hand was stuck up in front of him, holding his glasses at the oddest angle.

Aside from that, he looked like Death warmed over. His clothes were in tatters and almost white with dust. He was covered with innumerable scrapes, and was rather wet.

"Dead?" Ron whispered. "Harry?"

"Yes,"" McGonagall answered. "We think he was on his way up here to see you."

Ron didn't know why they thought that, but then he saw what McGonagall was carrying, and it all became perfectly clear.

Harry had purchased him a Nimbus Two Thousand and One, and, Ron guessed, couldn't wait until morning to give it to him. His impetuousness had cost him.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be! _He_ was supposed to the be headstrong one, not Harry! He'd rather have his friend safe and sound than a new broom any day of the week.

The tip of Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Harry's face. He was looking at him closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression, somewhere between concern and vindictive satisfaction.

Ron clenched his fist.

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Harry with his wand but nothing happened.

At last Dumbledore straightened up.

"He's not dead, Mr. Weasley," he said softly.

"Not dead?" choked Ron, looking through his fingers at Harry. "But why's he all - all stiff and frozen?"

"He has been Petrified," said Dumbledore. "But how, I cannot say. No normal magic is this, that turns living flesh and blood to stone."

"Petrified?" whispered Madam Pomfrey. "But - "

Dumbledore raised his hand to forestall any questions. His attention appeared to have been caught by something Ron couldn't see.

Very gently, Dumbledore pulled up Harry's sleeve. The fabric crackled as he did so, stiff with blood and sweat and stone dust and innumerable other things.

Dumbledore sucked in a breath as Harry's arm came into view. Madam Pomfrey stifled a gasp behind a hand, and Ron thought he might vomit.

The devastation was centered around a long, narrow gash that ran the length of Harry's forearm. What lay around that wound was not skin. In fact, it could hardly be called flesh. Puckered and blistered tissue had formed. It reminded Ron of the candles in the Great Hall; almost as if the meat of the arm had melted, run, and bubbled like hot wax.

A pulpy mass of green and black ooze had mixed with oozing white pus and melted red tissue to create a truly disgusting sight. The smell was horrendous – a suffocating, putrid miasma that slowly filled the entire room, nearly thick enough to see. There was a strange undertone to the smell, though – almost clean.

"Severus," Dumbledore breathed, never taking his eyes from the wound. "Your opinion?"

Snave moved closer to Harry's body and, to Ron's disgust, stuck his large nose directly next to the wound, and inhaled. He stayed like that for a long moment, eyes closed, and the stood back up, shaking his head.

"It could be a number of things, Headmaster. The ichor itself is unidentifiable without extensive testing. The coloration is hardly unique, but such a substance is obviously not native to the human body. Far more interesting is the melting and bubbling of the surrounding flesh. Add to that the citrus undertones present beneath the general smell of rot, and there are perhaps half a dozen possibilities. A distillation of Angel's Trumpet, perhaps, though it would need to be ingested. The same is true for Bloodroot Potion."

Ron's mind was racing, trying to think of anyone who might be responsible for hurting his best friend. An awful lot of those sounded like advanced potions. Who did he know that had a gift for potions and a grudge against Harry?

With the events of the other day still fresh in his mind, he jumped to the most obvious conclusion.

"Malfoy!" Rob blurted, interrupting Professor Snape. The sallow, sour man looked at him as though he were some extraordinarily disgusting piece of garbage.

"No second year could have done this," said Dumbledore firmly. "It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced -"

"He did it!" Ron insisted. "He did it!"

"No, Mr. Weasley. Mr. Malfoy, no matter what else he may have done, is not guilty of this. And I know just what Lucius' son has been up to. This is, I fear, a product of my own arrogance and an evil the world had not seen for a decade."

Dumbledore's tone brooked no argument, and as Ron settled down, he realized the old wizard was right. Harry appeared to have fought tooth and claw against whatever had done this to him . . . and Malfoy didn't have the guts to do that, the slimy git.

Dumbeldore gestured for the displeased professor to continue.

"Nundu saliva," Snape proceeded, "or so it is speculated, might have similar effect (though I should have expected it to have already resulted in Mr. Potter's death). Likewise, the venom of a basilisk has dissolutive properties. A Blood-Bile curse might also have had such an effect upon an open wound. I believe we can dismiss all save for the possibility of nundu saliva or basilisk venom."

"The Nundu is not native to this part of the world," Dumbledore murmured. "Nor would it have gone unnoticed in the castle; it would already have caused mass death through its breath. Such a beast could not have entered through the wards of the castle. So, this is a basilisk – a fragment of the past come back to haunt me. Will Harry be alright, Poppy?"

"I've never seen anyone poisoned by a basilisk, Albus," Poppy said, her face pale and frightened. "Normally, death is all but inevitable – Phoenix tears, when administered almost immediately after exposure, are the only known cure. Harry should be dead right now."

"But for the Petrification," Dumbledore realized. "Harry, you clever, clever boy. He must have known he was poisoned, and looked at the basilisk's reflection to petrify himself to halt the spread of the poison."

"Yes," said Madam Pomfrey. "He did. But I shudder to think . . . if you hadn't sensed the disturbance and gotten there so quickly, he would most likely have been devoured. As it is, he stands to lose the arm unless Fawkes deigns to heal him. Though the Petrification prevents the venom from further spreading, it is highly corrosive and the tissue surrounding the wound is saturated with it."

Ron was horrified. First Hermione, and now Harry?

"His arm? He's going to lose his arm?"

"We will be able to cure him, Ronald," said Dumbledore patiently. "Professer Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Harry. And I shall endeavor to . . . persuade . . . Fawkes to lend us her tears."

Dumbledore turned back towards Professors McGonagall and Snape.

"Severus, Minerva, I need you to fetch Filius and Pomona. Gather your students; I want them on the Hogwarts Express this very night."

"Albus! We will have no time to contact the parents, or - "

"The alternative is too horrible to contemplate, Minerva. I will not gamble with the lives of my students merely to maintain the image of Hogwarts. I suspect I know what is afoot, and I shall deal with it myself. Please call for Ministry Aurors. Can Harry be moved?"

Madam Pomfrey nodded.

"Petrification locks the body in a sort of stasis. The venom will not spread, and he will not lose any blood. Weasley is also well enough to leave with the other students."

"Excellent. He will need to be moved to St. Mungo's as soon as possible. Oh, and Severus? Tell Mr. Malfoy that, should he continue to slander and injure his fellow students that he shall need to explain to his father why he is no longer enrolled at Hogwarts. I will not tolerate blatant discrimination and violence here. You yourself would also do well to remember that."

Snape's face was the oddest combination of horror, disgust and displeasure. He nodded once, greasy hair tumbling about his shoulders, and stalked out, robes billowing behind him.

Ron smiled. That'd serve the git right, it would.

The statue laying on the other bed sobered him up pretty fast, though. Harry Potter was his best mate, and someone had set a basilisk on him.

 _Nobody_ hurt Ron's friends and got away with it.

* * *

Professor Dumbledore accompanied Ron down to the Great Hall, where he was joined ten minutes later by the rest of the Gryffindors, and the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, who all looked extremely confused.

"Your attention, please!" Professor Dumbledore called, his voice ringing from the rafters as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all doors into the hall. "I do not know how many of you heard the disturbance earlier tonight from your dormitories. That disturbance was an attack on a student – an attack of a most serious – indeed, lethal - nature."

The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly; the rest of the school had no inkling of what had just happened. They didn't know how serious it was.

"Accompanying this attack," he continued, "was a message. It stated that the Chamber of Secrets has been opened once more.

The Chamber of Secrets? Ron could only vaguely remember the myths surrounding the Chamber. His mum had told them the legend as children and ended the story with'So, don't hex Percy, Ron, or the monster will drag you to the Chamber of Secrets!'

Everyone was, of course, suitably horrified and let out an assortment of gasps and cries.

"The Chamber was last opened almost sixty years ago, and the horror within killed. I am confident that I can replicate the feat, but I'm afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to temporarily leave Hogwarts. Almost half a dozen students were killed last time, before I was allowed to deal with the creature."

"I want the prefects to escort groups of twenty students at a time to the train. Dividing by House and Year ought to do. The Professors will stand guard over the hallways between the Great Hall and the main gate. I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge of the students who remain in the Hall. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately," he added. "I also need to meet with the House ghosts."

"I need hardly add that I have rarely been so distressed. I would urge anyone who thinks they might know anything about these events to come forward."

There was an awkward silence as no-one spoke.

Then Dumbledore clapped his hands twice and everyone started madly rushing about. Ron ducked under a Seventh Year's flailing arms and scanned the madness for Hermione. He had to let her know what had happened!

Over in one corner, Percy was standing on a table and calling for the Second Year Gryffindors. Ordinarily, Ron might have scoffed at his brother's pretentiousness . . . but this time, he was actually doing some good. Probably be the last time Ron would ever even think that, too.

But there was relief in Percy's face as he saw Ron push up to him. Evidently, even pretentious asses could care for their younger siblings.

"Good! You're the last Second Year, Ron. All right, Second Years, follow me!"

Ron still didn't see Hermione with them, so he tugged Percy's sleeve as they left the Great Hall.

"Percy, where's Hermione?"

"She went ahead with Rose – you know, the other prefect. Rose was taking the First Years, and she took Hermione along to help."

As they jostled their way through a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Ron saw a flash of bright red hair. He recognized Ginny, but hadn't she gone with the other First Years? Mum was going to be _livid_ if she found out about this. What on earth did she think she was doing?

Ducking down, Ron joined the milling Hufflepuffs, and followed Ginny down a deserted side corridor. He had nearly caught up with her when he heard quick footsteps behind him.

Ron ducked behind a large stone griffin. Percy would be angry at him for running off, and Ron had no desire to be the target of a tirade. Not when his little sister was in danger.

Probably a good thing Hermione wasn't with him, either. She had this thing for rules he just couldn't understand.

Peering around it, however, Ron saw not Percy but Headmaster Dumbledore. His wand was held lightly yet firmly in his hand, and Fawkes the phoenix was perched on his shoulder. There was a cold fire burning in the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles.

He crossed the corridor and disappeared from view, going in the same direction as Ginny.

Was Dumbledore following her? And why had he looked so angry?

Quietly as possible, Ron crept along the next corridor after Ginny and Dumbledore's fading footsteps.

A lump grew in Ron's stomach as he walked, a seed of fear. He began to feel vaguely uncomfortable. Was this really the best idea? No-one would blame him if he didn't go after Ginny. He could just say that he hadn't seen her.

Ron shook his head and resumed walking. Maybe no-one else would blame him, but he would blame himself.

With each step the air seemed to grow colder, and the knot of tension inside seemed to become darker.

Ron turned a corner, and saw something dark on the wall ahead. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, black in the light cast by the flaming torches.

Then the fear hit him like a physical blow, making his knees buckle. The terror was an irrational, overpowering force that instantly stripped away any semblance of bravery

Ron heard a thousand little voices whispering to him, trying to convince him to turn back, trying to convince him of his uselessness.

 _Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter. Why risk your life for her? Let her go, and take her place in your family's heart. It would be so easy to turn back, to stop resisting._

"No," Ron growled. "Ginny's in trouble. I have to save her!"

 _But can you? You who are second best, always, eternally overshadowed by those whom claim to be your friends. They are not. You are nothing more than a tool to them, Ronald._

Ron ignored the voice, and concentrated on fighting past the fear. He had made it to his knees and was trying to lift a leg when a second wave of fear washed over him, more powerful than the first.

No sound came out. He could barely think.

Then a feather-light touch brushed against his cheek, and the fear was gone. And after the tide receded, a deep, quiet stillness followed. A sensation of warmth suffused him, gently easing away the few aches and bruises that remained from his recent fall. It spread over his skin, like sunlight on a lazy afternoon outside, and with the warmth his cares began to evaporate. His fear vanished, and he began to relax muscles he hadn't realized were stretched tight as the warmth spread. He floated in warmth for a time, the release from fear an ecstasy in itself.

Ron raised his head, and met the gaze of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She was tall, a creature of gliding curves and gentle shades. Hair the color of autumnal leaves and shot through with dusky gold coursed in a cascade to below her hips. The perfection of her form was complemented by features of feminine loveliness, a full mouth, skin like cream, and oblong, feline eyes vertically slitted and almost violently green.

She was also naked as a newborn babe.

Ron slapped a hand over his eyes. Mum had raised him as a proper gentlewizard, thanks, and he was not in the least comfortable with this woman's state of undress.

The woman let out a trilling laugh.

"Humans. I'd forgotten that you insisted on wearing those silly animal hides. It's been so long."

Ron heard the air whisper as though something had moved by at extraordinarily high speeds, and then she spoke again.

"You can open your eyes now, child."

Ron did so, and thankfully, the woman had clothed herself. He looked at her again, noting the catlike eyes, and realized that the things he had mistaken for hairs were actually innumerable, impossibly fine feathers.

She wasn't anyone Ron knew, and from what he could see, she wasn't even human.

"Who are you and why are you here?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I am the one you know as Fawkes, child. Phoenix of Hogwarts. I came because I could not allow one of my fledglings' minds to be destroyed by black magic, and because your sister needs you. Need I say anymore?"

Ron tried to reconcile the woman before him with the fragile bird that sat on Dumbledore's shoulder. He couldn't quite manage it.

"But I saw Fawkes earlier, and she was a bird sitting on Dumbledore's shoulder! Does he know you are here?

"I can take whatever form I please," the woman sniffed, flipping her hair behind her, " and Dumbledore is not my keeper. He waits for me below, along with your nest-sister. He does not know that I came to bring you to your sister – he would be most displeased if he did. He believes he can handle this matter himself, and he may be right. But it is a chance I am not willing to take. Besides, he won't ever find out about this, will he?"

Ron stared into her eyes. They were impossibly green, like a mossy forest pool. And her voice stirred something in him, soothed him and puts his fear to rest.

"No, of course not," he found himself saying. She patted his cheek again, and he shivered.

"Good boy. You have the best chance of saving your sister. She is the one behind these attacks."

His only thought was that such a thing was pretty much impossible but it was difficult for him to hold onto that thought. It was oddly slippery, and he was afraid he might lose it if he didn't voice it immediately.

"Ginny? She's got a nasty temper, but she wouldn't - "

"Your sister is no longer," Fawkes explained, "in control of her own actions. She somehow acquired a book that formerly belonged to Lord Voldemort. The object is powerful, and has her deep within its thrall. You must try to reach her. Come, time is short."

Ron tried to protest, but the woman sighed at him, and suddenly his questions and concerns didn't seem to matter so much anymore. Every thought and worry in his head seemed to have been wiped gently away, leaving only a vague, untraceable sense of discomfort.

Then the world snapped back into focus, and Ron knew he could trust this woman. He knew that everything she had said about Ginny was true. He couldn't have explained why he knew it, or why he should trust a stranger, but that seemed hardly worth remarking on. He knew it just as he knew up from down, left from right, and as surely as two and two make four.

"Where is she?"

Fawkes led Ron to a little door off to the side of the lettering. He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly withdrew his hand as though he'd been burned.

"What's the matter?" asked Fawkes, stretching her arms above her head. It did interesting things to her chest.

Ron turned pink and averted his eyes again.

"Can't go in there," he said gruffly. "That's a girls' toilet."

"Oh, silly child, there won't be anyone in there," said Fawkes, ignoring the large Out of Order sign, and opening the door. "Dumbledore is already down there, in any case."

It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Ron had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges.

One of the sinks was missing, looking as out of place as a missing tooth. Instead, a large pipes was set back into the wall - a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.

"There," Fawkes said. "The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Hurry, child. I must go ahead, for Dumbledore requires my aid."

And in an instant, with no word spoken that Ron heard, Fawkes vanished from his sight, and where she had stood, the great phoenix hovered once more. She was gone in an eye-watering flash of light.

Ron lowered himself slowly into the pipe, then let go.

It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark slide. He could see more pipes branching off in all directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted and turned, sloping steeply downward, and he knew that he was falling deeper below the school than even the dungeons.

And then, just as he had begun to worry about what would happen when he hit the ground, the pipe leveled out, and he shot out of the end with a wet thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in.

The tunnel was so dark that Ron could only see a little distance ahead. It was quiet as the grave, until Ron stepped on something. He froze and, after a long moment, lowered his wand to look at the floor

It was littered with small animal bones. Ron gulped and set off around a dark bend in the tunnel, his wand held high.

The tunnel was littered with pieces of gigantic snake skin, of a vivid, poisonous green. It looked like Dumbledore had blasted it to bits. Judging from the size of the bigger pieces, the creature that had shed it must have been twenty feet long at least.

After a long time in the dark tunnels, with the distant sounds of explosions in his ears, Ron found himself standing at the end of a very long, brightly lit chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a tall ceiling, casting long, distinct black shadows through the bright white weirlights that hovered near the ceiling.

Further flashes of light were emitted by an enormous translucent barrier of some sort that appeared to have erected off to one side of the Chamber. It took up more than half the room and, judging from the sounds emanating from it, Dumbledore was fighting the basilisk beneath it. More than once, he fancied he saw the old wizard standing with his back to the barrier and his wand raised.

Then something would hit the side of the barrier, and the whole thing would erupt into blinding light once again.

He pulled out his wand and moved forward between the serpentine columns. He was pretty sure Dumbledore had the basilisk under control, but he didn't want to take any chances,

The flashing light played havoc with the hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes, causing them to seem to be following him. More than once, with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw one stir.

Then, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall.

Ron had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It was ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. Looked a lot like Crabbe or Goyle, come to think of it, excepting the beard. Maybe one of them was Salazar Slytherin's many greats-grandson?

And between the feet, facedown, sat a small, black-robed figure with flaming-red hair.

Ron's heart caught in his throat and he drew closer to her, but he didn't forget Fawkes' warnings, and held his wand close to his side.

"Ginny!" he asked. "Are you okay?"

Ginny's head shot up, her hair hanging over her face in that style she had so recently adopted, and which Mum thought looked so horrid.

"Ron? Oh, thank goodness you're here!"

"Dumbledore knows what you've done, Ginny."

Ginny's head fell at that, and he could see fat tears dripping down her cheeks.

"I didn't mean to do it Ron," she sobbed. "Any of it! It was that h-horrid diary! I started writing in it and it wrote back. And the things it said were so sensible that I had to listen. And then I would wake up in the middle of the day in strange places, with no memory of what I had been doing! And blood and t-things all over my r-robe."

"Where's the diary now?"

She pointed, and Ron saw a pile of ashes with a few burnt pages. The remains of the diary, evidently.

Then she broke down into tears.

He breathed a sigh of relief and stuck his wand in his back pocket. Looked liked Dumbledore had already got the bloody thing.

Ron knelt down on the rough stone next to Ginny, grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. It took a great deal of coaxing and soothing for him to get anything more out of her.

The book had, apparently, forced her to come down to the Chamber in an attempt to reseal the Chamber of Secrets so that Dumbledore could not find it. Ginny described it as an awful dream.

"But then Dumbledore came," she continued, "and the d-diary was furious. It tried to use me to fight him, but he just disarmed me and immobilized me and took the diary away and set it on fire. When he lit it, it started screaming horrible and dripping ink. The screaming woke the basilisk up, and it slithered out here and Dumbledore put the barrier up so I wouldn't get hurt while he was fighting it."

"I'm going to be expelled!" Ginny wept as she rocked back and forth. "I've looked forward to coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came and n-now I'll have to leave and - w-what'll Mum and Dad say?"

"It's okay, Ginny. It's over," Ron comforted as he stroked her back. "Professor Dumbledore will kill the basilisk, and then you'll be fine. He knows what happened, and he won't blame you."

Gradually, hers sobs died down.

"We should be leaving," she finally said. "I-I hate this place. I never want to see it again!"

Ron frowned. One the one hand, he wanted to make sure Ginny was seen to as soon as possible . . . but he didn't want to leave Dumbledore alone, either.

"Let's just wait until Dumbledore comes out, okay, Ginny?"

"No, Ron, we have to leave now!"

There was a hard edge to Ginny's voice.

"Okay, okay. C'mon," Ron grunted as he hauled his little sister to her feet. Really, only she (or Hermione) could be so bossy at a time like this. She had to get it from Mum.

Ginny took a few tentative steps, but then she collapsed on the floor.

"I can't, Ron. The diary . . . it took my strength. I feel so weak."

Her last words were little more than a whisper, and Ron felt terrified. He had to get her to Madam Pomfrey immediately.

Sweating, Ron managed to hoist Ginny half off the floor, and reached back for his wand.

But his wand had gone.

"Ginny? Did I drop my wand behind me?"

She moved her head faintly against his shoulder, which he took as a 'no.'

Ron lowered Ginny back onto the floor, unable to hold her up any longer. He needed to find his wand so he could try and levitate them both back up the pipe.

He turned around and looked behind him for the wand, but didn't see it, so he turned back towards Ginny.

She was watching him – and twirling his wand between her fingers.

Ron reached out for it, only to have her pull back with a high, cold laugh that didn't suit her. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Ron 's neck.

"Listen," said Ron urgently, mopping his forehead with a sleeve. "We've got to go! You could be in real danger! Stop messing around and give me the wand!"

A smile curled the corners of Ginny's mouth – all that he could see of her face beneath her bangs. She continued to watch Ron, twirling the wand idly.

"You won't be needing it," she said.

Ron stared at her. Had she gone mad?

Then, with a chill, he noticed for the first time a weird, misty light shining about Ginny.

"So, you've noticed it at last," she murmured, but her voice was not her own. It was a shade too high, and far too cold.

Never pointing the wand away from him, Ginny reached out with one hand and flipped her hair back away from her face, and looked Ron in the eye.

Her eyes weren't brown like they were supposed to be. Instead, they were bright, bright red.

"You see," she said, "Ron, Dumbledore didn't put that barrier there to prevent magical backlash from hurting me. He put it there to prevent me from blindsiding him while he was occupied with the basilisk. He may have broken my wand, but Lord Voldemort does not need such things to kill . . ."

Ron remembered what Fawkes had told him. That Ginny had somehow acquired a book that formerly belonged to Lord Voldemort, and that the diary had enslaved her.

"But the diary is destroyed! It was the only thing enslaving you!"

"Foolish child. I am far, far more than a mere diary. No, the diary was merely a container – one that I have now evolved beyond. Now I have a better container: a living body. Dumbledore came too late. Ginevra Weasley is no more; you look upon no other than Lord Voldemort himself."

"No," Ron whispered. Not Ginny, it couldn't be. Not his sister.

 _You have the best chance of saving your sister. You must try to reach her._

The Ginny Ron knew wouldn't do something like this. She was the light of the Weasleys, their princess. She was the girl all the brothers doted on – and the one who had repeatedly kicked their arses. She was the little girl he had taught to fly a broom. She was good and kind, even with her ferocious temper and wicked sense of humor.

And she was still in there.

Ron met Voldemort-Ginny's eyes.

"You may be in that body. But you're not the only one who is in there. My sister is in there too, and you won't take her from me. I know you can hear me, Ginny. He isn't in control. You are."

For a brief moment, the wand-hand was lowered, and the red eyes faded back to bright brown.

It didn't last, of course.

"So clever for a Weasley," Voldemort sneered in her cold voice, wand snapping back up. "Yes, you are right. But she is all but gone. Now there is only I. I am Lord Voldemort, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, and the greatest wizard that the world has ever known!"

"I would beg to differ in that regard," came a voice, old and strong. Ron turned to look.

It was Dumbledore. He had dropped his shield, and scattered bits of the basilisk were scattered all over the floor behind him.

Voldemort turned and faced his greatest enemy.

"So, you managed to kill my basilisk. Bravo. But that will not save you. You will not kill me. You cannot – and that gives me the advantage."

"It was not," Dumbledore said, flicking his wand up to a guard position, "my greatest challenge. Not as difficult as the last time, even. This was a newborn, wasn't it, Tom? Only a few months old. And it was already severely injured."

Voldemort only snarled, the expression horribly out of place on his little sister's face.

"It was, then. And I must admit, Tom, that you were quite right in choosing to occupy Mrs. Weasley's body, rather than sap her life force. I should have struck you down if you had. Now, I cannot. But I _can_ imprison you indefinitely, until such a time as I can force you out. I shall not allow you to harm any other Muggleborn in this school."

"Haven't I already told you," said Voldemort quietly, "that killing Mudbloods doesn't matter to me anymore? For many months now, my new target has been Harry Potter. And I think I have succeeded in killing him. Even should I lose here, I shall have exchanged a knight for a queen."

"No. You have not killed Harry Potter. He is expected to make a full recovery."

The only warning Dumbledore received was a twitch of Ginny's lips, and then jets of light were flying so thick and fast that it all but obscured the forms of the Dark Lord (Lady, now?) and the Headmaster.

Every few seconds, he caught a glimpse of the combatants. Here strode Dumbledore, pressing his opponent relentlessly with whips of cold white fire. There stood Voldemort, directing bright green spheres of what looked like acid at his opponent.

Curses and counter-curses were exchanged. The towering stone statues on either side of the chamber were blown to bits by blasts of pure force, slagged by fires hot as the sun, and outright disintegrated by whispered, shadowy spells.

Eventually, there came a natural lull in the fighting while each opponent sized the other up.

Albus Dumbledore stood proud and tall despite his advancing age. Not a single spell from the exchange appeared to have touched him; his dressing robes and night cap were free of dust and debris. The old man didn't even look like he had found the exchange particularly difficult.

He presented a sharp contrast to Lord Voldemort – or, Ron thought again as his heart panged, Ginny.

His sister was breathing hard and very nearly dripping with sweat. Even from nearly twenty feet away, he could hear her panting for breath and see her small arms trembling. One of her eyes constantly twitched, and there was a pained expression on her face.

"Not so easy," Dumbledore called, "when you possess a child, is it? Let alone one that has not welcomed you. I thought you would have learnt from your mistake with Quirrel: a greater wizard, whilst possessing a lesser one, is appropriately limited as to his ability to use magic when in that lesser wizard's body. You have hobbled yourself, Tom, by taking another host, especially one who _still fights against you_."

Voldemort gritted her teeth and clenched her hands so hard that the knuckles turned white.

" _I_ am the one in control here, Dumbledore. The girl is less than nothing."

"Then prove it."

And so battle was joined once more.

It was clear that Dumbledore had the upper hand in the fight. Indeed, Ron suspected (based solely upon the introductory lessons that Professor Lupin had given in Defense Against the Dark Arts) that the duel would have ended long ago, had Dumbledore not been hampered by the fact that he wanted to win without hurting Ginny in any way.

Having blocked another spell in the nick of time, Voldemort bared her teeth – and turned to Ron, wand already going through the motions of another spell. Dumbledore would be forced to defend both himself and Ron, and that could give Voldemort the opening she needed.

Ron took a deep breath, but he didn't move.

Instead, he simply said, "Ginny," just loud enough for the Dark Lord ahead of him to hear.

Voldemort froze. Red eyes turned once more to brown, and Ginny's proper voice came from her body.

"Not my brother, you utter tosser!"

Voldemort screamed in rage at hearing this, and Dumbledore acted while the Dark Lord was distracted. A lasso of light flew from his wand, coiling itself around Ginny's slender body.

It was only one spell and Voldemort was bound, writhing in impotent fury. Dumbledore was at Ron's side in a flash.

"So you are defeated once more."

Voldemort spat, eyes brimming with hatred.

"If I go, the girl dies."

Dumbledore shook his head slowly, his beard swaying ponderously.

"I think not. Fawkes?"

Fawkes swooped down and landed on Voldemort's chest.

Then she began to sing. It was eerie, spine-tingling, unearthly; it lifted the hair on Ron's scalp and made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch that Ron felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, Voldemort's eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp.

Dumbledore leaned down and, with surprising strength, lifting Ginny into his arms.

"Is- is Voldemort gone?"

Dumbledore's face fell.

"No. No, he is not. But Ginny is now in control and, with time, I believe I can remove him from her body."

"Oh," Ron said, a little blankly. However was he going to explain this to Mum and Dad?

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Behind Ron, Fawkes the phoenix let out a low, sad cry. He suddenly realised that Dumbledore's bright blue eyes looked rather watery, and that the old wizard had taken this hard. When Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was quite steady.

"I am very sorry, Ronald. But the very chance of freeing her from Voldemort's control is only possible thanks to you. _You_ won that duel. You were willing to risk your life to save your sister, and there is no greater love, no greater courage than that".

As Dumbledore lifted them up the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, there was only one thought in Ron's mind.

If this was victory, then he did not want to know defeat. He hadn't been strong enough to protect those he cared about.

A heavy weight landed on his shoulder, and golden talons latched onto his shirt.

 _A man can have anything, so long as he is willing to give everything._

* * *

Jeeves was _cross_.

Very, very, cross. So cross, in fact, that he was hardly able to hold his form. His broad shoulders flexed and hunched to inhuman proportions, distending the padded shoulders of the suit jacket he wore. Talons sprang from suddenly enormous hands, only to shrink and retract moments later.

But then he calmed himself. He was in St. Mungo's, and it would not do for any of the Healers to see him. Especially not when the Headmaster was meeting him here, in Harry's hospital suite, in less than a quarter of an hour.

He was the eldest of his kind, the first, and he had had over five millennia to develop self-control. His will, when he chose to exert it, was adamantine; his façade, perfect.

That iron will was able to repress the side effects of his sullen rage, but it could not cool it.

It was not anger directed primarily at Dumbledore, nor at the Hogwarts staff, though there was that too. They had reacted appropriately, and that was enough, for preemptive action was impossible when one had no knowledge of a threat. He did not forgive them for allowing his lord to be injured under their watch, but neither did he blame them overmuch.

No, the person with whom he was most displeased was himself.

For three thousand years, he had reigned supreme over his many progeny. He held the patience of time and the will of stone. His ascension seemed inevitable.

Then a time had come when his power was insufficient, and bargains had to be struck. A sharp price was exacted, but it was one he was willing to pay, for what the nameless things he bargained with offered was beyond price.

He became a soldier in wars older than time. An actor in great events. A servant of terrible powers.

Then - almost a millenium ago – he had met Namshiel. By order of the dread entities he served, he had become the Fallen's greatest servant, and perhaps the closest thing either of them could have to a friend. Through Namshiel, he would serve them.

Since that time, he had served as his master's greatest protector and champion. Through war and famine and betrayal and time, he had performed his duties flawlessly.

But as the climax of this act of the play came closer, a great many of Namshiel's plots and investments required direct oversight . . . which the Fallen was unable to provide, as Nicodemus and Lartessa demanded his presence more and more often. Namshiel had delegated tasks he was unable to do himself to the tender care of Jeeves, and so his manservant was not there when the Fallen faced the Starborn and had been overthrown. The powers behind his opponent crippled him to the point of uselessness.

The Lords of the Infinite were not pleased.

After Jeeves rescued his master's coin from the icy dungeons of Arctis Tor, he had sworn never to allow such a thing to happen again. But the same cycle occurred, and Jeeves was not by his master's side in his time of need.

Nothing irreparable had happened, but that was only by merest chance. Damage to the current host was unacceptable, unlike for the past millennia, but the host had been damaged, and very nearly killed. Jeeves had known there was something afoot at the school; he had arrogantly presumed that nothing of the wand-wizards could harm his master, hampered and weak as he might have been. He had actually advised his master's host – despite both his knowledge, and the previous year's events – to return to Hogwarts.

If one of their favored tools had been lost to them once more, the unspeakable horrors Jeeves had pledged his allegiance to might very well have rent him apart.

Then there came a sharp rapping on the door, and Jeeves was startled out of his self-flagellation.

"Enter," he commanded.

A young lady poked her head around the door.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but Dumbledore's here to see you."

"Thank you, my dear. Please send him in."

Dumbledore entered, looking deadly serious and very tired, and was followed by a second, very odd-looking man.

The stranger had rumpled gray hair and an anxious expression, and was wearing a strange mixture of clothes: a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long black cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under his arm he carried a lime-green bowler. He was followed by a rather squat woman with a broad, flabby face and a very wide, slack mouth. Her eyes were large, round and slightly bulging, and she was dressed in eye-wateringly pink clothes, with a small, sharp quill tucked behind one ear.

"May I present," Dumbledore said, "Cornelius Fudge, Minster of Magic, and Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister."

Jeeves shook the Minister's proffered hand before taking Umbridge's plump, ink-stained fingers in his own and brushing his lips against her knuckles.

"Minister, an honor. Madam, a pleasure."

"Good to meet you too, though it's too bad we had to meet about such bad business," said Fudge, shaking his head. "Very bad business. An attack on the Boy-Who-Lived. Terribly unfortunate. I want to tell you that the whole of Magical England stands with him and his in this time of tragedy."

"I thought it would be best to mention," said Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge, "that the creature responsible for Harry's wounds has been killed, and those responsible, dealt with."

Jeeves waved a hand.

"I have no doubt, Headmaster. Such things will not, however, change was has already happened. Did you bring the Phoenix tears?"

"I did," said Dumbledore slowly. "A bargain was made. I gave them to the Healer responsible for Harry. She will know better than I how to administer them. Harry should be right as rain as soon as the Petrification is removed."

"Excellent. Minister, if I may be so bold, what is the reason for your presence here?"

"Lucius -" Fudge began, but before he could finish, there was another loud rap on the door.

Dumbledore answered it.

Mr. Lucius Malfoy strode in, swathed in a long black traveling cloak, smiling a cold and satisfied smile.

"Already here, Fudge," he said approvingly. "Good, good. . ."

"What," said Jeeves, his voice laced with displeasure, "are you doing here?"

Jeeves had not invited Lucius Malfoy here. Since Harry had, apparently, hexed Draco Malfoy, Lucius had refused any and all attempts Jeeves made to ally himself with the wizard.

In all honesty, Jeeves was indifferent to this reception. Lucius Malfoy did not know his place in the world. He thought himself one of the biggest fish in the pond. Jeeves knew better; the pond was actually an ocean, and there were far bigger fish in it than Lucius Malfoy.

Abraxas had understood this, once Namshiel stood before him in the full majesty of his power, and had bent his knee to the Fallen. Namshiel had even told him things about the larger supernatural world and the wand-wizards' place in it.

Lucius knew no such thing, and he had dared to make _demands_ of Jeeves for helping him the previous year. Gifts beyond those he had already been given.

A lesson in humility, Jeeves decided, was called for.

"My dear man, please believe me," said Lucius Malfoy, smiling in a patronizing manner. "I had no intention of interrupting this little meeting. I simply called at the school and was told that the headmaster was here."

"And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?" said Dumbledore. He spoke politely, but a fire was blazing in his blue eyes.

"Dreadful thing, Dumbledore," said Malfoy lazily, taking out a long roll of parchment, "but the governors feel it's time for you to step aside. This is an Order of Suspension - you'll find all twelve signatures on it. I'm afraid we feel you're losing your touch. A basilisk attack on the Boy-Who-Lived? Why, he might have died, and we all know what an awful loss that would be to the school."

"Oh, now, see here, Lucius," said Fudge, looking alarmed, "Dumbledore suspended - no, no - last thing we want just now, after he just dealt with the creature so quickly."

"The appointment - or suspension - of the headmaster is a matter for the governors, Fudge," said Mr. Malfoy smoothly. "And as Dumbledore has failed to prevent the initial attack - "

"I was not aware," Dumbledore said very quietly, "that it was public knowledge that it was a basilisk that attacked Harry Potter. Indeed, I was not even aware anyone outside the Ministry or Hogwarts staff knew he had been attacked. And indeed, it would have been entirely impossible to prevent the initial attack. The Chamber of Secrets is impenetrable, and its location was, until recently, unknown. Moreover, I had killed the monster residing there when I was younger. We had every reason to believe it would never trouble us again. This new basilisk must have only just hatched from an egg that was left there."

Malfoy's smile shriveled.

"Be that as it may, all twelve of us have voted, and it was a unanimous decision to remove you from office."

Dumbledore had not taken his bright blue eyes off Lucius Malfoy's cold gray ones.

"If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall of course step aside. But I think it would be wise if I talked to the other governors first, simply to confirm their votes. It is very odd; some of those governors held their posts during Professor Dippet's term as Headmaster. The Chamber of Secrets was also opened then, resulting in a half-dozen deaths, and yet Dippet was not asked to step down."

"The governors have already met, Dumbledore. The matter has been decided. There is no way for you to avoid stepping down."

Jeeves had stepped away from the others, and was now examining a picture on the wall, his hands deep in the pockets of his suit jacket.

"Professor Dumbledore will not be stepping down," he said without turning back to the others. "My dear fellow," Fudge spluttered, "I may not like the idea either, but the Board of Governors has decided! You aren't a Ministry official, let alone a member of the Board! As a matter of fact, who are you? I thought Potter lived with his Muggle relatives."

"Mr. Potter's relatives," Jeeves answered, voice laced with diffident disapproval, "appointed me their proxy in matters relating to the Wizarding World. I speak with their full approval. They detest wizards, you see. But that is neither here nor there. As I said, Professor Dumbledore will not be stepping down."

"Indeed? Malfoy asked. "How do you suppose that?"

"First, because I represent the only injured part here, and do not hold the good Headmaster accountable for what happened. As such, neither should the Board of Governors. Greengrass and Parkinson will both retract their support tonight, as will you. Without your votes, the motion will have failed."

"I most certainly will not!"

A heavy sigh was his only response. Malfoy insisted on being difficult, it would seem. The man did not realize that it was a _privilege_ to serve Lord Namshiel, and _honor_ to have had his family selected from all other wand-wizards to be his hands in Wizarding England.

"Were your father Abraxas here with me, he would heed my words. He was a wise man. I would encourage you to follow his example."

Malfoy merely sneered and refused to reply.

Well, then. A storm front was supposed to blow through within a few days, and there were other wand-wizards who served Namshiel, albeit in a lesser capacity.

Dumbledore had been following this exchange with bright eyes.

"You knew Abraxas Malfoy?" he interjected.

"Yes," Jeeves said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Yes, I did. My appearance belies my age. In any case, Professor Dumbledore, as I said earlier, I hold you in no way responsible for what occurred."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Jeeves, but I still hold myself responsible. This is twice now that young Harry has been in danger at Hogwarts."

There was a deep pain in those blue eyes, and Jeeves knew that Dumbledore did indeed blame himself. The Headmaster was a good man; one of the best, perhaps, that Jeeves had ever known.

How utterly repulsive.

"Yes," said Jeeves as he turned back to them, "he has. That is why I am, as of today, withdrawing him from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

There was a moment of absolute silence, and then the room exploded into noise as the Minister, and Umbridge tried to express their shock, consternation, and/or displeasure at the idea. Malfoy watched from the side, narrowing his cold eyes.

Dumbledore merely nodded once, eyes tired and old, and conjured a squishy armchair to sit in while the others argued.

"Now, see here, my good fellow! You can't just withdraw the Boy-Who-Lived from Hogwarts. The papers would have a field day – to say nothing of the approval ratings. No, it just won't do."

Jeeves held up a hand to forestall any further arguments.

"Withdrawing my ward is a radical step, but recent events have made it abundantly clear that the Hogwarts staff can no longer guarantee his safety. After the events of last year, I was reluctant to send my ward to Hogwarts once more. Given the recent attack, I'm afraid that the Dursleys can no longer justify sending him to Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts has in its faculty an abundance of wise and talented professors," argued Fudge, his voice becoming shrill. "Everything clearly got out of hand this year, yes, but I assure you, there is no safer place in the world for young Harry. There is no magical institution more qualified to have him there. You'll find nowhere better in Britain."

"You assume my clients intend Mr. Potter to remain in Britain, Mr. Fudge. The Dursleys have heard of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, to name but two – both are just as qualified as Hogwarts. Moreover, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named never had a great deal of influence on the Continent. He will have no old friends there."

No-one missed the sly glance Jeeves directed towards Malfoy, who compressed his lips into a flat line.

Fudge looked as though he was about to have a stroke.

"You-Know-Who is dead! Dead, I say!"

Jeeves tilted his head to one side and looked curiously at the Minister. That was a rather extreme reaction, and not one he had anticipated.

"I never meant to imply otherwise, sir. But there _are_ those in Britain who still resent Harry Potter for defeating the Dark Lord."

"We have," Lucius said smoothly, "the Headmaster of Hogwarts (for now, at least) amongst us. Have you nothing to say, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore had folded his hands and was listening to the argument with his eyes closed. At Lucius' words, he opened them and looked at the others.

"I," said Dumbledore, speaking very slowly and clearly so that none of them could miss a word, "agree with Mr. Jeeves and the Dursleys."

A stunned silence followed that proclamation.

Umbridge piped up in a fluttery, girlish, high-pitched voice that set Jeeves' teeth on edge every time he heard it. It was a disgusting affectation, for he did not believe such tones to be within the normal range of the human voice.

"I'm sure I must have misunderstood you, Professor Dumbledore," she said, with a simper that left her big, round eyes as cold as ever. "So silly of me. But it sounded for a teensy moment as though you were suggesting that Hogwarts was not safe for Harry Potter – something that would certainly support Mr. Malfoy's motion to remove you as Headmaster."

She gave a silvery laugh that almost made Jeeves cringe. But that would break the unwritten laws of etiquette, and Jeeves was a stickler for etiquette, so he did his best to hide his reaction.

"I can agree with Mr. Jeeves while disagreeing with Mr. Malfoy's thinly veiled accusations of incompetence," returned Dumbledore. "It cannot be denied that young Harry has been the victim of several attacks. On the first occasion, he actively sought out the danger, and so it was quite impossible for me to protect him entirely. Similarly, the basilisk attack on him was the first made – we had no inkling of the beast's existence before that. Talented I may be, but I am not skilled at Divination to such an extent that I can foresee every danger Harry might face at Hogwarts."

"Nor can it be denied," he continued, stroking his long white beard, "that there remain those in Hogwarts whose families might have sympathies towards the Dark Lord. That does, of course, apply to not only to Hogwarts but Britain as a whole. At best, going to school with them may result in arguments and childish grudges. At worst, who can say? It is impossible for me to monitor them every single second of every single day, and it would be a gross violation of privacy to do so."

Jeeves nodded approvingly. He'd half-expected Dumbledore to side with the Ministry and refuse to let Harry out of his direct oversight, but the man appeared to understand Harry's situation. As much as any wand-wizard _could_ , that is.

"There is also the fact that every time Harry attracts dangers, he also endangers the other students. Any collateral damage will inevitably have effects upon those within Hogwarts. Nor is it my place to insist that he go to Hogwarts. The public, and perhaps even the Ministry, seem to have forgotten that Harry Potter is entitled to the same rights and privileges every other wizard his age is. No more, no less. He has no duty to stay here; it is his choice, and to even considering taking that away from him is abhorrent. Our choices make us who we are."

"But he might well be in more danger on the Continent!" Fudge argued. "The blood wards that are registered with the Ministry-"

"Certain protections are in place around the Dursley residence, yes," Dumbledore admitted, "but recent events have forced me to reconsider their effectiveness. Anonymity may well be a better defense."

Fudge stamped his foot.

"I won't allow it, Dumbledore! The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of greatest importance, and it just won't do for the Boy-Who-Lived to leave us for Beauxbatons or Durmstrang. Think of the publicity!"

"You appear, inadvertently I am sure, to have overlooked a few laws. The Ministry has no jurisdiction over Hogwarts enrollment. As for education, I have no doubt that Harry will be amply provided for. I would be quite happy to make some suggestions concerning that, Mr. Jeeves."

"Laws can be changed," said Fudge savagely.

"Hem, hem," coughed Umbridge. When she was quite sure all eyes were on her, she continued.

"While the Ministry does not currently have the legal right to require Mr. Potter to attend Hogwarts, it does have some say as to emigration and immigration."

Fudge seized on that piece of information as a drowning man might seize at flotsam. It wouldn't keep him afloat, of course, but it would provide a comforting illusion.

"Yes, of course. I shan't approve any application by Harry Potter to emigrate. Shan't, I say!"

"The International Confederation of Wizards," Jeeves observed, "of which Headmaster Dumbledore is a member, would no doubt have something to say about that. You are not the Ministry, Minister; you are merely its temporary head. I should advise you to be more impartial."

Dumbledore made an assenting noise. He looked quite put out by Fudge's almost childish behavior.

The Minister was silent for a long moment. Then:

"What does Harry have to say about this?"

Jeeves frowned down at the Minister. The man was quite intolerable. He couldn't help comparing the Minister to Arthur Langtry, whom Jeeves had had the (mis)fortune of meeting some two hundred years earlier.

It was not a favorable comparison.

"Mr. Potter is currently unavailable for comment. Regardless, until such time as he reaches his majority, the decision lies with his guardians."

The Minister sputtered and railed, but he left nonetheless, Dolores following closely behind him. Lucius Malfoy left without any fuss, which Jeeves did not like. That, and his silence through Jeeves' arguments with the Minister, were worrying.

"That," Dumbledore said as the door closed, "is precisely why I never involved myself in politics."

"Perfectly understandable, sir. Now that the Minister is gone, I beg you to speak candidly."

Dumbledore raised a frosty eyebrow.

"I meant every word I said, Master Jeeves. Given recent events, I question my ability to keep young Harry safe while at Hogwarts, and fully support whatever decision he makes. However . . ."

"Yes?"

"I should very much like to take Harry to the Department of Mysteries when he is recovered. There are things that need to be explained to him if he is no longer to be under my direct supervision. Things related to Voldemort, and to his family."

Jeeves nodded slowly. Now that was interesting.

"I am sure he would like that very much, sir. He holds you in the highest regard."

Dumbledore's eyes softened at that, and he heaved himself out of his chair with a sigh. He stretched, and offered his hand to Jeeves.

"It warms an old man's heart to know that. Mr. Jeeves, it has been a pleasure. I am very much in your debt for opposing Lucius Malfoy's attempts to have me removed as Headmaster."

They shook hands, and then Dumbledore DisApparated. No crack accompanied his departure; only a sighing, like the wind in the willows.

* * *

The Healers cured Harry Potter of the basilisk venom several hours later, and then lifted the Petrification. But Harry did not stir, instead remaining in a deep sleep.

Jeeves ushered the Healers out, and then went to stand at the head of the bed.

"Sir? Are you awake, sir?"

Harry Potter's eyes snapped open.

Not his normal eyes, though, not the ones below his eyebrows and to either side of his nose. No, these eyes opened on his forehead.

A force seized Jeeves; his arms clapped to his side and his legs were snapped down straight, locking his body into a rigid board. He rose a foot or two off the ground, at the mercy of his master's wrath.

He was pulled close, until he was nose-to-nose with Harry. He remained there a second before the pressured lessened and dropped him gently to the ground before dissipating.

"Ah," came a voice from Harry's mouth. "My faithful Jeeves. What has happened while my body has been incapacitated?"

Jeeves gave a succinct version of recent events, including Dumbledore's proclivity for opposing Fudge and Malfoy's attempts to have Harry confined to England.

"That," the Fallen frowned, "troubles me greatly. He supported you, you say?"

"Yes, sir, though I believe he is somewhat concerned about Harry's education. His consent might very well have been the deciding factor in the argument. The Minster's Undersecretary was also most helpful, though the Minister did not know it."

Namshiel waved a hand, but he didn't get the gesture quite right; his hand merely flopped limply about on the end of his arm. Being trapped in a body for years on end would do that, Jeeves knew; the Fallen would fall out of practice at using human muscles.

"He need not bother. Harry Potter will never become proficient at wand-magic, regardless of what teaching he receives."

"Sir?" Jeeves asked, confused. So far as he knew, there was no way to accurately predict the strength of a wand-wizard before they reached their majority, or thereabouts. How did his master already know that Harry would never wield wand-magic with any skill?

Namshiel was not in an answering mood, however, and Jeeves knew better than to press him.

"It is unimportant. Enough of this wand-wizard nonsense; have you been contacted?"

"Yes. They want In."

"They always want In," the Fallen hissed as he leaned back into his pillows, green eyes blazing.

"Very true, sir, though the schedule appears to have been accelerated while you have been otherwise engaged. Peabody forced the Warden-Captain to murder LaFortier and pinned the blame on Donald Morgan. Things did not proceed according to plan, though, and he was unmasked and killed."

"Two centuries of my efforts die with him," Namshiel spat, though there was little heat in his tone. Samuel Peabody was hardly invaluable. "Dresden?"

"So I gathered, sir. There is even some talk of bringing in the Next."

Namshiel-Harry hissed through his teeth.

"They cannot. It is too early, too great of a gamble. Mab's eye is fixed on the Gates, as is Rashid's. And that infernal Starborn is altogether too good at foiling such things. I shall have to meet with the others myself, and soon."

Jeeves gave a discreet cough, and produced a crumpled paper from the pockets of his suit jacket.

"Incidentally, sir, our contact brought me this. It must have been deemed worth the risk of discovery, for the contact to have been so bold."

Namshiel snatched the paper with an eerie, fluid motion, and unfolded it. His eyes burned brighter and brighter as he scanned the page.

Then he laughed, and that rich, dark laughter filled the room. It was laughter that should never have come from any child, and it made Jeeves' hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Oh, yes. This, my dear servant, is worth every risk. Before we leave, we shall need to make a visit to the Ministry of Magic. Something very interesting has caught our contact's interest. Contact Lucius, and tell him that I want to visit the Department of Mysteries."

"I'm afraid Lucius has turned against us, sir. He is impetuous and small-minded."

Fabric darkened and flame crackled as Namshiel's temper rose. Across the room, a vase of flowers disintegrated into blackened ash.

"But oddly enough, sir, we may not need him. Professor Dumbledore was kind enough to invite Harry to accompany him there."

* * *

 _To borrow an adage, the Horse must serve the King. The question is, who is the King – and who is the Horse?_

 _Everyone give a hand to my new beta, Kingofclubs8129. Without him, this chapter would not have been published nearly as quickly._


	16. Chapter 15: Beyond the Veil

XV: Beyond the Veil

"This seems a rather odd place for the Ministry of Magic to be located, Professor," Harry offered tentatively.

Harry and Dumbledore were standing before an old red telephone box, which was missing several panes of glass. A heavily graffitied wall loomed silently behind it, a monument to London's slow decay.

They were, Harry knew, supposed to be going to the Department of Mysteries. After several extremely lengthy conversations, Jeeves and Namshiel decided that it was best for Harry to go with Dumbledore. It was only polite, after all; he was supporting Jeeves' bid to withdraw Harry from Hogwarts – to the extent that he was waging a very quiet, very personal battle with Cornelius Fudge over the matter.

"Though my memory is no longer that of a young man," Dumbledore admitted, "I am nonetheless confident that this is the visitor's entrance to the Ministry of Magic. You are quite right, though; it is an odd place. I've urged the Wizengamot several times to move it outside of London – not many wizards live in London, you know – but they are insistent that it remain here. Why, I really have no idea . . ."

Dumbledore held open the telephone-box door and motioned Harry inside.

Harry stepped inside, wondering why on earth a dingy telephone box was the visitor's entrance. Dumbledore folded himself in beside Harry and closed the door. It was a tight fit; Harry was jammed against the telephone apparatus, which was hanging crookedly from the wall as though a vandal had tried to rip it off. Dumbledore reached past Harry for the receiver.

"Professor, I think this might be out of order," Harry said.

"Of course it appears so, Harry," said Dumbledore, dialing a number with a speed borne of long familiarity. "If it did not, Muggles might very well try to use it, and though they would still need the number, it is best not to take chances. Appearances are a powerful means of protection."

As the dial whirred smoothly back into place, a cool female voice sounded inside the telephone box, not from the receiver in Dumbledore's age-spotted hand, but throughout the enclosure, as loudly and plainly as though an invisible woman were standing right beside them.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Headmaster Dumbledore and Harry Potter, here by appointment to visit the Oracular Section of the Department of Mysteries."

Harry started, but the motion was so minute that he doubted Dumbledore had caught it.

Prophecy? There was a prophecy, presumably concerning him, that he hadn't known about?

 _Peace, dear boy Dumbledore is the sort of man whom you can trust almost absolutely – the only caveat is, of course, that you not reveal what you are and what you have done. Should he ever find out, he will kill you where you stand. Redemption he offers only to those who have not spurned it, and you are far beyond such things,_ Namshiel soothed.

 _But a Prophecy, Namshiel,_ Harry asked, gnawing at his lip. _How likely is it to be dangerous?_

 _It is likely to be interesting_ , Namshiel allowed, _but it should hardly be dangerous. Most tend to be self-fulfilling; others are frauds (though I doubt Dumbledore would have been taken in by such a fraud), others misinterpreted, and still others misheard. It matters not; with my aid, there is nothing you cannot overcome. And the prophecy is really a tangential concern. We are here for something else entirely._

 _What?_ Harry demanded, but Namshiel refused to respond.

Really, that was most _vexing_. If Namshiel hadn't told him why they were really visiting the Department of Ministries, it was an unknown variable. And unknown variables, Harry knew, were likely to cause problems as soon as they became known.

"Thank you," said the cool female voice, jarring Harry out of his thoughts. "Please take these badges and attach them to the front of your robes."

There was a click and a rattle, and Harry saw something slide out of the metal chute where returned coins usually appeared. He picked it up: it was a square silver badge with _Harry Potter, Visitor by Appointment_ on it. He pinned it to the front of his shirt as the female voice spoke again.

"Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

Dumbledore was engrossed in pinning his own badge to his robes, but he frowned when he heard that.

"I should much rather that people not know that you were visiting the Department of Mysteries, Harry. I could Apparate us to the elevators, I suppose. Still, the choice is yours."

"It's quite alright, Professor," Harry said. "They'll only know I'm visiting the Ministry – not which Department. But out of curiosity – why couldn't you Apparate us directly to the Department of Mysteries' Oracular Section?"

"To be quite honest, Harry, I am a knowledgeable wizard. Some might argue I am one of the greatest in the past three or four centuries. But, be that as it may, I am not _the_ greatest wizard. Rather skilled at Transfiguration, perhaps, but less so in other areas. And in those other areas, there have been wizards much, much, greater than I. The defensive spells around the Department of Mysteries were laid in antiquity by some such wizards. The spellwork is perhaps the oldest in Britain, and some of the most complex. I examined some of it in my youth (with the permission of the Head Unspeakable, of course). It was quite beautiful. Thousands upon thousands of spells resonating with one another, spreading and interlocking into a most imposing barrier. They feed upon one another, strengthen each other, create a magnificent resonance of energy that has become something far greater than the sum of its parts."

"It sounds incredible," Harry said softly.

Dumbledore smiled, the expression soft and sad.

"Oh, it was. Quite humbling, too, and at a time when I sorely needed such humility. I realized I was scarcely more than a child next to whoever wove those spells."

The floor of the telephone box shuddered, and the conversation halted. They were sinking slowly into the ground. Harry watched as the pavement seemed to rise up past the glass windows of the telephone box until darkness closed over their heads. Then he could see nothing at all; he could hear only a dull grinding noise as the telephone box made its way down through the earth. After about a minute, though it felt much longer to Harry, a chink of golden light illuminated his feet and, widening, rose up his body, until it hit him in the face and he had to blink to stop his eyes watering.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," said the woman's voice.

The door of the telephone box sprang open and Dumbledore stepped out of it, followed by Harry, who was rubbing at his eyes.

They were standing at one end of a very long and splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor. The peacock blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming golden symbols that kept moving and changing like some enormous heavenly noticeboard. The walls on each side were paneled in shiny dark wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them. Every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft whoosh. On the right-hand side, short queues were forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart.

Halfway down the hall was a fountain. A group of golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the middle of a circular pool. Tallest of them all was a noble-looking wizard with his wand pointing straight up in the air. Grouped around him were a beautiful witch, a centaur, a goblin and a house-elf. The last three were all locking adoringly up at the witch and wizard. Glittering jets of water were flying from the ends of their wands, the point of the centaurs a tow, the tip of the goblin's hat and each of the house-elf 's ears, so that the tinkling hiss of falling water was added to the fiery snaps of the Floo portals set into the walls and the clatter of footsteps as hundreds of witches and wizards, most of whom were wearing glum, early-morning looks, strode towards a set of golden gates at the far end of the hall.

They joined the throng, making their way towards those golden gates. Dumbledore's presence was enough to ensure that they were given a wide berth.

Harry looked at all of those wizards and witches, some of whom were carrying teetering piles of parchment, others battered briefcases; still others who were reading the Daily Prophet while they walked, and he felt nothing but contempt.

These, then, were the milling sheep that were blind to everything outside of their own quiet lives. They were the ones who had neither the dedication nor the power to make anything of themselves.

It was well that they knew their betters, though he doubted that Dumbledore would agree.

"Over here, Harry," said Dumbledore, and they stepped out of the stream of Ministry employees heading for the golden gates. Seated at a desk to the left, beneath a sign saying 'Security', a badly-shaven wizard in peacock blue robes sighed and looked up as they approached and put down his Daily Prophet.

Then the man realized exactly whom he was sighing at, and he leapt up and began smoothing down his wrinkled robes and running his hands though his tangled hair.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, sir! What can the Ministry of Magic do for you today?"

"Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid, Leeroy," Dumbledore returned, shaking the man's hand. "I'm just escorting this young man to an appointment."

"Of course, sir. If you wouldn't mind stepping over here, I can start straight away."

Harry walked closer to him and the wizard held up a long golden rod, thin and flexible as a car aerial, and passed it up and down Harry's front and back.

"Your wand, if you please, young sir," Leeroy said, putting down the golden instrument and holding out his hand.

Harry produced his wand. The wizard placed it carefully on a strange brass instrument, which looked something like a set of scales with only one dish. It began to vibrate. A narrow strip of parchment came speeding out of a slit in the base. The wizard tore this off and read the writing on it.

"Eleven inches, phoenix-feather core, been in use four years. That correct?'

"Correct," Harry replied.

"I need to keep this for records purposes," said Leeroy, impaling the slip of parchment on a small brass spike. "Here is your wand. Have an excellent day," he added, holding out Harry's wand. "You also, Headmaster."

"Thank you," said Harry. He noticed Dumbledore didn't have to submit his wand for inspection.

Harry followed Dumbledore through the gates into the smaller hall beyond, where at least twenty lifts stood behind wrought golden grilles.

With a great jangling and clattering a lift descended in front of them; the golden grille slid back and Harry and Dumbledore stepped into the lift.

The grilles slid shut with a crash and the lift descended slowly, chains rattling, while the same cool female voice Harry had heard in the telephone box rang out again.

"Department of Mysteries. Please be advised: Beta – Plus clearance required."

The doors opened into a small lobby. Several sofas were scattered around, and at the far end was an iron door and a small songbird on a stand.

Dumbledore started towards the door. Harry trailed cautiously behind him – he didn't like the look of that bird.

When they got to the door, Dumbledore held out a finger to the bird, which promptly hopped onto it.

"Please tell whoever is currently overseeing visitors that Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter are here for their appointment, and request entrance."

The bird sang a brief snatch of song, then pecked Dumbledore on the hand, drawing a bead of blood. It extended a long, thin, tongue and lapped the blood up before flying over and landing on Harry's shoulder.

Harry flinched in spite of himself.

"Don't be alarmed, Harry. It needs to take a tiny sample of your blood, to make sure of your identity. It shouldn't hurt much; its saliva is a natural coagulant and anesthetic."

Harry hesitated, his knowledge about what hair and blood could be used for making him wary.

 _Wand-wizards do not use blood magic. Allow the avian to do its job,_ instructed Namshiel.

Harry held out a finger. The bird sampled his blood, and then disappeared with a small 'pop.'

No more than half a minute later, the door groaned and dissolved into countless silver droplets which squirmed away into cracks in the walls.

A slender, reedy little wizard in a tan tweed suit stood in the doorway. There was a pencil tucked behind one ear, and a quill behind the other.

"Mr. Dumbledore and Mr. Potter. Mr. Croaker has instructed me to be your guide. I am Erbse Körper, junior Unspeakable. This way, please."

They stepped out into the corridor where nothing was moving but the nearest torches, flickering in unseen streams of air.

Körper led them down the hallway. It was a very long hallway, paved with slippery black marble and slanting slightly down. By the time they reached the end. Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that uncountable tons of stone and earth lay above his head.

The corridor ended in a door made of some black wood. It swung open on silent hinges as Körper approached.

Beyond lay a large, circular room. Everything in here was black including the floor and ceiling; identical, unmarked, handle-less black doors were set at intervals all around the black walls, interspersed with branches of candles whose flames burned blue; their cool, shimmering light reflected in the shining marble floor made it look as though there was dark water underfoot.

The door behind them closed without a sound. Without the long chink of light from the torchlit corridor behind them, the place became so dark that for a moment the only things Harry could see were the bunches of shivering blue flames on the walls and their ghostly reflections in the floor.

"Please prepare for momentary disorientation," Körper announced. "I assure you, it is nothing to be concerned about."

There was a great rumbling noise and the candles began to move sideways. The circular wall was rotating. Harry instinctively grabbed Dumbledore's arm, frightened the floor might move, too, but it did not. For a few seconds, the blue flames around them were blurred to resemble neon lines as the wall sped around; then, quite as suddenly as it had started, the rumbling stopped and everything became stationary once again.

Harry's eyes had blue streaks burned into them; it was all he could see. The blue slowly faded from his vision to reveal dark stone and identical black doors.

 _Clever_ , Namshiel said. _A quaint piece of magic, to stop intruders from escaping._

Harry realized that Namshiel was quite right; he could no sooner identify the exit door than locate an ant on the jet-black floor; and the door through which he needed to proceed could be any one of the dozen surrounding them.

Körper was walking around the room, muttering something under his breath, until he finally stopped at a door that looked no different than all the others. He straight at the door, set his left hand against its cool, shining surface, and pushed.

It swung open easily.

Over the Unspeakable's shoulder, Harry caught a glimpse of lamps hanging low on golden chains, desks and, in the very middle of the room, an enormous glass tank of deep green liquid, in which a number of pearly-white objects were drifting around lazily.

Körper closed the door, and once more the world spun around him.

Harry noticed, though, that he never removed his hand from the door.

When the spinning stopped, Körper opened the same door once more. Harry expected to see the same room beyond.

He did not.

He knew it at once by the beautiful, dancing, diamond-sparkling light that blazed forth from the doorway. As Harry's eyes became accustomed to the brilliant glare, he saw clocks gleaming from every surface in the room beyond, large and small, grandfather and carriage, hanging in spaces between the bookcases or standing on desks ranging the length of the room, so that a busy, relentless ticking filled the place like thousands of minuscule, marching footsteps. The source of the dancing, diamond-bright light was a towering crystal bell jar that stood at the far end of the room.

Drifting along in the sparkling current inside was a tiny, jewel-bright egg. As it rose in the jar, it cracked open and a hummingbird emerged, which was carried to the very top of the jar, but as it fell on the draught its feathers became bedraggled and damp again, and by the time it had been borne back to the bottom of the jar it had been enclosed once more in its egg.

Odd.

Namshiel hummed thoughtfully, deep within Harry's mind.

 _There is only one door in this room._

 _What?_

 _As I said, there is only one door in this room. Each door is this door. It is the door through which we entered. Every time Körper opens it, a new room is revealed. He is opening it in a specific pattern, holding the door open for a different amount of time every time. I can see him counting the time under his breath._

The thirteenth time Körper tried the door, Harry could feel that something was different.

This room was larger than the others, dimly lit and rectangular, and the centre of it was sunken, forming a great stone pit some twenty feet deep. They were standing on the topmost tier of what seemed to be stone benches running all around the room and descending in steep steps like an amphitheater. A raised stone dais dominated the center of the pit, on which stood a stone archway that looked so ancient, cracked and crumbling that Harry was amazed the thing was still standing. Unsupported by any surrounding wall, the archway was hung with a tattered black curtain or veil which, despite the complete stillness of the cold surrounding air, was fluttering very slightly as though it had just been touched. He had the strangest feeling that there was someone standing right behind the veil on the other side of the archway.

Namshiel tensed and stirred within his mind.

 _This, Harry. This is what I came for. What we came for._

Then he began to hear faint, spidery muttering. Whispering, murmuring noises coming from the other side of the veil.

At first, he couldn't make anything out. Harry could feel pressure in his skull, building to almost intolerable levels as Namshiel looked through his eyes and listened through his ears. The Fallen was excited, Harry could tell – excited and anxious to such an extent that it surpassed every emotion Harry had felt from him since the moment of their joining.

The whispers were becoming clearer and more distinct, until finally -

 _NAMSHIEL, FIRST AND MOST BELOVED OF MY SERVANTS._

The voice was low, like a whisper, but harsh and penetrating, and sounded as though an immense chorus was speaking at once. It resonated in Harry's head, in his thoughts, in a way Namshiel's had never done.

And it was _wrong_. Horribly, terribly wrong. Reality twisted and screamed under its weight as it issued forth from the Veil. The air itself seemed to shred open, and madness gushed through.

Harry's mind was still human, and it could not handle the voice of a being that had been locked away from reality. This was the voice of a servant of a manifestation of a limitless being, of a god, and the Knight of the Blackened Denarius buckled beneath its weight, the world heaving around him.

The pain was worse than anything he could have imagined. Next to this, the basilisk venom was nothing. Every vowel clawed at his skin, and every consonant burned his ears like liquid fire. Darkness. Patterns swirling in darkness. The air shattering. Colors. Infinity. A Lord of the Infinite.

* * *

Harry awoke with a throbbing headache. From the information Namshiel constantly supplied to his subconscious mind, Harry gathered it was not unlike a hangover. Only unimaginably worse. His eyes ached with strain, as if he'd been outdoors in bright sunlight for too many hours. There was a warm wetness around his lips, and he realized his nose was dripping blood.

Namshiel wasn't doing anything to help curb the pain, either. No, he was singing in delight, his ecstasy soaring like hymns in the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral.

He was on the floor, so he must have fallen. That was probably what the blood was from.

 _Namshiel_ , he asked, confused and frightened in a way he had not been since he took up the Coin, _what was that? What happened to me? That voice . . . it . . . it . . ._

The Fallen heard him, and this time he deigned to respond. His song eventually quieted, and then fell silent.

 _You heard the voice of my master, through channeled through one of his lesser servants, and reduced through the potency of the Gateway._

 _Master?_ Harry asked. Who could that be? Nicodemus, no. Harry had met Nicodemus, and for all his terrifying efficacy and ruthlessness, he had not the power to rip the world asunder in such a way.

Who, then? One of the Princes? Perhaps even the Lightbringer himself? Any one of them, Harry supposed, though his thoughts were far too muddled to come to a satisfactory conclusion.

 _I do not answer to them, save in name alone,_ Namshiel snapped, clearly irritated by the direction Harry's thoughts were taking. _I do not serve the Morning Star. Once, perhaps. But he had his chance to seize the Heavens, and he failed. I will not serve such a one as he._

 _Who, then?_

 _You are tired, dear host_ , Namshiel replied, voice dripping honey, and Harry realized he was. So very tired. _My master's voice was not meant to be heard by mortals, even those as strong as you. You will have your answers soon, but you are in no condition to hear them now. Rest, my host._

Well, he was very tired, and the cold stone floor wasn't so very cold after all. It fact, it felt rather warm and soft, and he seemed to be sinking into it.

Surely there was no harm in it?

 _Rest, dear host_ , Namshiel murmured. His voice was deep, resonant, soothing. _I've taken care of everything_.

And Harry slept.

* * *

Both sets of eyes popped open, but a twitch of a finger and ancient words disguised as a sleepy murmur hid the demonic set from view. True magic, of course – couldn't risk having Dumbledore notice a spell. He'd learned this particular bit of magic from a Duke of the Red Court, and altered it to suit his purposes. It was a flesh-mask of sorts, and as long as he was careful, Dumbledore would notice nothing amiss.

Dumbledore was shaking his hosts' body, he realized, and asking him questions.

"Harry? Harry!"

"I'm fine, sir," Namshiel said, the blood in his nose ruining his otherwise perfect imitation of Harry's voice. "I'm quite alright."

He sat up, ignoring all of the annoying little signals his host's body made indicating that that was _not_ a good idea.

Dumbledore pushed him back down, though he was gentle about it.

"You most certainly are _not_ fine. Mr. Körper, I'm afraid I'm going to have to hurry Harry to St. Mungo's as soon as possible. If you could get the door -"

"There's no need," Namshiel reassured him. "No need at all. I'm quite all right. The spinning of the room, I'm afraid, made me extremely nauseous. I've always had rather severe vertigo. Part of the reason I don't play Quidditch. When taken in conjunction with my recent, erm, incapacitation, it was a little too much for me."

It was good that he was in control – well, more direct control – of the body. Harry Potter was becoming quite the accomplished little liar, but Namshiel had two millennia of experience in lying to mortals. He could pull the fabric for the lies from nothing, and weave it into a grand tapestry.

Dumbledore frowned through his beard.

"You are not completely recovered? The phoenix tears I procured -"

"Without a doubt, saved my life, sir. But the Healers tell me that I'll still be a little weak for several weeks."

All that was actually true, believe it or not. Dumbledore could check with St. Mungo's, and they'd happily confirm it . . . though the symptoms were not at all similar to what had just happened to him. Still, a kernel of truth to build on.

"You're completely sure that you're fine, Harry? Lingering things like this ought not be trifled with – I speak from personal experience."

"Quite sure, sir."

"Very well, then," Dumbledore conceded. "Let us move on."

He pointed his wand at Harry's face, made a gesture; the bone of his nose reset itself, and the blood was gone.

Impressive, Namshiel mused as he rose. Nonverbal magic of any sort was most impressive. Namshiel knew less than a score of wizards who had become proficient in it to any degree.

Harry, for instance, still had great difficulties with even a nonverbal Summoning Charm, and that was after half a year's training underneath the greatest magician of the Denarians. And that was _impressive_. Even though he'd intentionally been holding the boy back, it was alarming, and led to him deciding he didn't want Harry using wand-magic with any degree of skill.

No, better that he rely on Namshiel to learn true magic, than pursue any natural talents he had with wand-magic. Namshiel found that fostering such dependency was greatly advantageous.

Körper opened the door once more, and this time he made no move to shut it.

"The prophecy is in here, sirs. I am not permitted to accompany you any further. Each prophecy is a deeply personal matter, and we Unspeakables have no business hearing them without permission. If you would like a representative present, you will need to sign form 42(a) and release statements 501(b) and (c)."

Harry politely declined, and entered the doorway, Dumbledore at his side.

The room beyond was as high as a church and full of nothing but towering shelves covered in small, dusty glass orbs. They glimmered dully in the light issuing from more candle-brackets set at intervals along the shelves. Like those in the circular room behind them, their flames were burning blue. The room was very cold.

Namshiel peered down one of the shadowy aisles between two rows of shelves. He could not hear anything or see anything of particular interest.

"We are looking for row ninety-seven, Harry," Dumbledore said, brushing past him. "I should greatly appreciate it if you would help me look for it. My eyesight is not what it once was."

They went on down the long alleys of shelves, the further ends of which were in near-total darkness. Tiny, yellowing labels had been stuck beneath each glass orb on the shelves. Some of them had a weird, liquid glow; others were as dull and dark within as blown light bulbs.

Time seemed to have little meaning in this place. Namshiel could have walked between the towering rows of glass balls for an hour or a minute before he found the correct row and pointed it out to Dumbledore.

It was very dangerous, and undoubtedly an effect of close proximity to the Gateway.

Dumbledore led the way down that aisle, looking the glass orbs over carefully behind his spectacles. Finally, he stopped and made a satisfied noise.

"Here, Harry."

He was pointing at one of the small glass spheres that glowed with a dull inner light, though it was very dusty and appeared not to have been touched for many years.

"Sir?"

"This is the prophecy concerning you," Dumbledore clarified. "As such, only you can remove it from its shelf."

He had to crane this body's neck to read the yellowish label affixed to the shelf right beneath the dusty glass ball. In spidery writing was written a date of some years previously, and below that:

 _S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D._

 _Dark Lord_

 _and (?)Harry Potter_

Yes, it was probably for the best that he was here to hear this instead of Harry.

He closed his fingers around the dusty ball's surface. He had expected it to feel cold, but it did not. On the contrary, it felt as though it had been lying in the sun for hours, as though the glow of light within was warming it. Vaguely hoping that something dramatic was going to happen, Namshiel lifted the glass ball down from its shelf and stared at it.

Nothing whatsoever happened.

"Before you listen to the prophecy," Dumbledore said, very softly, "there are several things you must know."

Namshiel-Harry cocked his head attentively.

"First and foremost, listening to the prophecy may irrevocably alter the course of your life. A great many prophecies are self-fulfilling, and once you listen to this one, it may dominate your destiny forever. You have the choice to put it back on the shelf and walk away, and no-one will think any less of you for that. Indeed, that is the choice that I would encourage."

Namshiel took a deep breath. This was _not_ looking good. Dumbledore seemed nervous, and there were few things that could scare such a man.

"I should very much like to listen to it anyway, Professor."

"That is your choice," Dumbledore said, inclining his head. "Know also that there are many ways of both interpreting prophecies and circumventing them. And finally, know that no matter what, I shall always stand with you."

"Thank you, sir," Namshiel said, and he meant it. Dumbledore would prove a valuable ally until Harry's true nature inevitably came out. When it did, he would have to strike hard and fast.

"You have to crush the orb under your heel to hear the prophecy."

Namshiel commanded the body to obey, and it did so. A figure, pearly-white as a ghost, draped in shawls, fluid as smoke, unfurled itself from the fragments of broken glass upon the floor and began to speak in the harsh, hoarse tones.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches . . . born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies . . . and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not . . . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives . . . the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies . . ."

Then the figure crumpled like ash in the wind.

Namshiel looked up at Dumbledore and saw a tear trickling down his face into his long silver beard.

Well, he was not quite as moved as Dumbledore. This changed very little, really. Namshiel had already promised Harry Voldemort's head. And the prophecy itself was, to his mind, far too ambiguous to greatly affect them. The fourth line, for instance – the bit about neither living while the other survives, was absolute codswallop. He had substantial proof that Voldemort was still alive, and he knew very well that Harry was still alive.

And perhaps the Prophecy might already have been fulfilled. Hadn't his host, all unknowing, already vanquished Voldemort once, as a baby? That might have been enough to fulfill the terms of the prophecy.

He felt Dumbledore's eyes on him, and knew that Harry's face was hard and cold as marble.

"What," he asked, feigning terrible concern, "does this mean, Professor?"

"If you will sit, I will do my best to tell you what I know about the Prophecy."

Namshiel paused, as there was nowhere to sit, but a flick of Dumbledore's wand changed that, and quite soon he was ensconced in a cushy chintz chair.

It was quite a long tale that Dumbledore wanted to tell, about one Tom Riddle and his ascension (or fall, if you were so inclined) to becoming the Dark Lord Voldemort.

Namshiel listened to it absent-mindedly. He had heard such tales a hundred times before, and his thoughts were, quite honestly, elsewhere – on the Veil that lay deep within the bowels of the Ministry of Magic. . .

There was one bit that Namshiel was interested in, though.

"The end of the prophecy," he began, "was something about how neither can live . . ."

"... while the other survives," finished Dumbledore. "Yes."

"So," said Namshiel, "how are we both still alive?"

"Prophecy rarely takes well to literal interpretation," Dumbledore said, his voice dry. "But it may have to do with something else as well. A diary was possessing Ginny Weasley, forcing her to release the basilisk. It was a very powerful, very malevolent object. Close inspection of it confirmed my suspicions that Voldemort has managed to bind himself to several such objects, rendering himself virtually invincible while they exist."

"He cannot die?"

"No, so long as the objects are unharmed."

Phylacteries, Namshiel mused. Almost certainly phylacteries _._

He'd used such objects before. They were a means of obtaining temporary invulnerability at great cost – namely, blood sacrifice and altering the soul. Namshiel knew quite a bit more about the soul than human wizards did, and he didn't care to go meddling about with it. As such, he regarded their creation as a temporary solution with many drawbacks.

"There are worse things than death," he pointed out. "Imprisonment in Azkaban, perhaps."

Oh, there were far more painful ways of circumventing the invincibility of a phylactery, though they were not methods he would wish to tell Dumbledore of.

"Perhaps, perhaps, Harry. But do not worry about such things. I am fairly certain that I can unmake these objects before you ever face him, if indeed you must."

Well, there was that too, Namshiel supposed. A phylactery could be destroyed in several ways if one had all of them present.

It was also possible for one to undergo a ritual to destroy them, but that wasn't something Namshiel was interested in. It required the willing, selfless sacrifice of one's own life to destroy the phylacteries of an opponent.

He was fairly sure he knew which method Dumbledore was thinking of.

* * *

"You know, Harry," Dumbledore said, as he Apparated Namshiel-Harry back to the Dursley's, "if you do choose to leave Hogwarts, I know Professor Lupin would be delighted to tutor you privately. He was a very good friend of your parents, and extraordinarily qualified for the post of Defense against the Dark Arts professor."

"Why is that?" Namshiel asked, interest piqued. He didn't intend to let Harry spend much time around anyone who knew his parents very well (there was too much risk of a bond developing), but tutoring might be possible.

"Mr. – that is, Professor now, I suppose – Lupin is almost singlehandedly responsible for the current position of werewolves in Britain. It is a position that is infinitely preferable to how they were treated before and during Voldemort's rise to power. Among those cursed with lycanthropy and their families, he is every bit as famous as you are."

Now that _was_ fascinating. He had never before heard of this werewolf, which made it all the more extraordinary.

"What did he do to merit such regard?"

"When Voldemort first began his campaign of terror," Dumbledore began, "many werewolves sided with him. They thought that he represented a brighter future, and that, if he won, they might have had a better life. Voldemort could not have cared less about their wellbeing, of course, but that is another matter entirely."

"The packs who united under Voldemort's banner were led by Fenrir Greyback, the most savage werewolf of modern times, and one of Voldemort's most feared enforcers. He regarded it as his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many people as possible, in order to create enough werewolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort promised him prey in return for his services, and he became an effective weapon of terror – specializing in cowing those who opposed Voldemort by threatening to infect their children. That didn't make him any less terrifying on the battlefield, however; Greyback was still a very old, very vicious werewolf, whose raw physical power more than compensated for his lack of talent in spellcasting. He clawed out the eye of a very good friend of mine, who himself was a noted Auror."

That, Namshiel guessed, would be Alastor Moody.

"Greyback had infected Professor Lupin when he was very young, and Lupin loathed him with a fierce passion. During the war, he would constantly seek Greyback out amidst the ambushes and skirmishes. Eventually, on the day of a full moon, Lupin found Greyback and his most loyal supporters. Over the course of that day and the coming night, Lupin hunted down and slew every one of them. We found him the next morning, horribly mauled, lying next to Greyback."

"He had killed Greyback?"

"Oh, yes. Greyback was very much dead. Mr. Lupin was holding Greyback's heart in his hands."

How very interesting. This Mr. Lupin might be worth a look.

* * *

 _And now, dear readers, you learn exactly why Harry Potter is so rotten at wand-magic. Namshiel's true allegiances begin to shine through, in more ways than one. That shall be expanded upon in the next several chapters, after a time-skip of either six months or a little over a year - when duty forces Harry Potter to the American city of Los Angeles . . ._


End file.
